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so increased that he had taken to his hammock,' and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died.

8. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, and so ghastly, that it is no wonder even the eye of affection did not rec'ognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features, it read at once a whōle volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek and stood wringing them in silent agony.

9. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances-the greetings of friends-the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers-but felt that I was a stranger in the land.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

145. LINES TO A CHILD ON HIS VOYAGE TO FRANCE TO MEET HIS FATHER.

1.

2.

O, how impatiently upon the tide

The proud ship tosses eager to be free.

Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails
Pant to be on their flight. A few hours more,
And she will move in stately grandeur on,
Cleaving her path majestic through the flood,
As if she were a goddess of the deep.
Oh, 'tis a thought sublime, that man can force
A path upon the waste, can find a way
Where all is trackless, and compel the winds,
Those freest agents of Almighty power,

To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on
To distant climes.

Thou, William, still art young,
And dost not see the wonder. Thou wilt tread
The buoyant deck, and look upon the flood,

1 Ham' mock, a swinging bed. Buoyant (bwal' ant), floating light; lifted up.

Unconscious of the high sublimity,

As 'twere a common thing-thy soul unaw'd,
Thy childish sports uncheck'd: while thinking man
Shrinks back into himself-himself so mean
'Mid things so vast,—and, rapt in deepest awe,
Bends to the might of that mysterious Power,
Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides
The ungovernable winds. 'Tis not in man
To look unmoved upon that heaving waste,
Which, from horizon to horizon spread,
Meets the o'er-arching heavens on every side,
Blending' their hues in distant faintness there.
3. 'Tis wonderful!—and yet, my boy, just such
Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless,2

As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes
As calm and beautiful. The light of Heaven
Smiles on it, and 'tis deck'd with every hue
Of glory and of joy. Anon, dark clouds
Arise, contending winds of fate go fōrth,
And hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck.
4. And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,

Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck,
The foolish must. Oh! then, be early wise!
Learn from the mariner his skillful art
To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path
'Mid countless dangers, to the destined port
Unerringly secure. Oh! learn from him
To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thy sail from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,
Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies,

Points to the light that changes not, in Heaven.

5. Farewell-Heaven smile propitious on thy course,

'Blend' ing, joining; mingling.- Fåth' om less, too deep to be measured; that which can not be understood.- Propitious (pro pish us), highly favorable to success.

And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms
Of love paternal. Yes, and more than this—
Biest be thy passage o'er the changing sea
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept
The light of joy; the waves roll gently on
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe
To meet in peace thine other Father,-GOD.

CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE.

146. CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.

GAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not

AGAINST

have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium,' how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice.

2

2. Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary3 case. In some respects, it has hardly a precedent' anywhere-certainly none in our New England history. An agèd man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly' murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet-the first sound slumbers of the night hold him in their soft, but strong embrace.

3. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot, he paces the lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent' of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on

'Op pro' bri um, reproach with contempt or disdain; disgrace.—2 Assas sin a' tion, the act of murdering by secret assault, or by sudden violence. Extraordinary (eks trår' de na ri), uncommon; remarkable.— 'Prec' e dent, something that may serve for a rule in after cases of a like - nature; some instance of a like kind.-- Bûtch' er ly, cruel; bloody

its hinges; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer; and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his agèd temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!

4. It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon.' He even raises the agèd arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished! The deed is done! He retreats-retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and he is safe!

5. Ah, gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as in the splendor of noon,— such secrets of guilt are never safe; "murder will out."

6. True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears cătch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery.

7. Meantime the guilty soul can not keep its own secret, It is false to itself—or, rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of

1 Bludgeon (blůd' jun), a short stick, with one end loaded, and heavier than the other; a thick stick or club.- Poniard (pon' yard), a small dagger.

conscience to be true to itself-it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares not acknowledge to God A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth.

or man.

8. The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him withersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master; it betrays his discretion; it breaks down his courage; it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst fōrth. It must be confessed; it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but in suicide, and suicide is confession. DANIEL WEBSTER.

1.

147. THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG.

OW launch the boat upon the wave—

NOW

The wind is blowing off the shore-
I will not live a cowering slave,

In these polluted islands more.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
There is a better home for me.

2 The wind is blowing off the shore,
And out to sea the streamers fly.
My music is the dashing roar,
My canopy the stainless sky:
It bends above, so fair a blue,

That heaven seems opening to my view.

1Sa'i clde, self-murder.- Cån' o py, covering overhead.

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