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Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad, for human kind,
Is happy as a lover, and attired

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired,
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or, if an unexpected call succeed,

Come when it will, is equal to the need;


He who, though thus indued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,

Are at his heart; and such fidelity

It is his darling passion to approve;

More brave for this, that he hath much to love.


"Tis, finally, the man who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,
Or left unthought of in obscurity-
And with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-
Plays in the many games of life that one
Where what he most doth value must be won!
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self- urpassed;


Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause!
This is THE HAPPY WARRIOR-this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.

SELECT ETYMOLOGIES.-Abate : F. abattre (ä-bätr), to beat down; L. ab and ba'tuo, I beat. . . . Bereave: A. S. bereaf'ian, to deprive of. Bias: F. biais (bē'ā), a slope. Biographer: Gr. bi'ōs, life, and graph'ō, I write; fr. graph'ō is gram'ma, a writing, a letter; and these forms enter into a large class of words, as auto-graph (au'tos, self), telē-gram (v. TELEGRAPH), epi-gram, grammar, graphic, etc. . . . Desire: L. desid'ero, desidera'tum; h., desiderate, desideratum (anything to be desired; pl. desidera'ta).

Dower: L. L. dota'rium; fr. L. do'to, dota'tum, to endow; h., dotation, dowager (a title given to the widow of a person of rank when he who succeeded her husband in his titles and estates is married, there being thus two ladies with the same title), endow, etc. . . . Exercise: L. exer'ceo, exercitum, to drive on or keep busy; fr. ex, out of, and ar'ceo, I shut up.... Indue : L. in'duo, indu'tum, to put on an article of dress. ... Manna: L. and Gr.; fr. Hebrew man'an, to bestow; food miraculously supplied to the Israelites in Arabia; the sweet juice of a kind of ash. . . . Pain: L. pœna, penalty. . . . Power: F. pouvoir (poo-vwor); fr. L. pos'se, to be able; fr. pot'is, able; h., im-potent, omni-potent (om'nis, all), pleni-potentiary (plen'us, full), possible, potent, potentate, potential, puissant, etc. . . . Pure: L. pu'rus; h., im-pure, puritan, purity, etc. Real: L. L. re'alis; fr. L. res, a thing. Transmute : L. transmu'to; fr. trans, through and through, mu'to, muta'tum, to change; h., com-mute, im-mutable, mutable, mutation.



Do not suffer words to pass you by which at once provoke and promise to reward inquiry. The left hand, as distinguished from the right, is the hand which we "leave," inasmuch as for twenty times we use the right hand we do not once employ the left; and it obtains its name from being left unused so often. Strong is the participle past of "to string;" a "strong" man means no more than one whose sinews are firmly strung. The smith has his name from the sturdy blows that he "smites" upon the anvil. No one believes now in astrology, yet we seem to affirm as much in our language, for we speak of a person as "jovial" or "saturnine" or "mercurial;" jovial as being born under the planet Jupiter or Jove; saturnine, as born under the planet Saturn; and mercurial, that is, light-hearted, as those born under the planet Mercury were supposed to be.-Trench.


Pronounce Bologna, Bōlōn'ya; Montgolfier, Mōng-gōl-fe-a'; the e in Re'no as in prey; Rozier, Ro-ze-ā'.


1. WILD and daring as was the act, it is no less true that men's first attempts at a flight through the air were literally with wings. They supposed that, by elongating their arms with a broad mechanical covering, they could convert them into wings. They did not consider that birds possess air-cells, which they can inflate; that they have enormous strength of sinew, expressly for the purpose of flying, and that their bones are full of air instead of marrow. And so there have been desperate half theorists, who, in their ignorance, have launched themselves from towers and other high places, and floundered down to the demolition of their necks or limbs, according to the obvious laws and penalties of nature.

2. The most successful of these instances of the extraordinary but misapplied force of human energies and daring was that of a certain citizen of Bologna in the thirteenth century, who actually managed, with some kind of wing contrivance, to fly from a mountain of Bologna to the river Reno without injury. "Wonderful! admirable!" cried all the citizens. "Stop a little," said the religious authorities of the times;


this must be looked into." They sat in sacred conclave. "If the man had been killed," said they, or even mutilated shockingly, our religious scruples would have been satisfied; but, as he has escaped unhurt, it is clear he must be in league with the evil one." The poor "successful" man was therefore condemned to be burnt alive, and the sentence was carried into execution.

3. So far as we can see, the first real discoverer of the balloon was Dr. Black, who, in 1767, proposed to inflate a large skin with hydrogen gas, and the first who brought theory into practice were the brothers Montgolfier. But their theory was that of the "fire-balloon," or the formation of an artificial cloud of smoke, by means of heat from a lighted brasier placed beneath an enormous bag, or balloon, and fed with fuel

while up into the air. The Academy of Sciences immediately gave the invention every encouragement, and two gentlemen volunteered to risk an ascent in this alarming machine. The first of these was De Rozier, a gentleman of scientific attainments, who was to conduct the machine, and he was accompanied by an officer of the Guards. They ascended in the year 1783, in the presence of the court of France and all the scientific men in Paris. The intrepid voyagers had several narrow escapes. The whole machine was near taking fire, but eventually they returned to the ground in safety, after a journey of about six miles. Both these courageous men subsequently came to untimely ends.

4. But let us ascend into the sky. Taking balloons as they are, "for better, for worse," let us for once have an aërial flight. The first thing you naturally expect is some extraordinary sensation, which takes away your breath for a time, in springing high up into the air. But no such matter occurs. The extraordinary thing is, that you experience no sensation at all, so far as motion is concerned. A very amusing illustration of this is given in a letter published by Mr. Poole, the well-known author, shortly after his ascent. "I do not despise you," says he, "for talking about a balloon going up, for it is an error which you share in common with some millions of our fellow-creatures, and I, in the days of my ignorance, thought with the rest of you. I know better now. The fact is, we do not go up at all; but at about five minutes past six, on the evening of Friday, the 14th of September, 1838—at about that time, Vauxhall Gardens, with all the people in them, went down!"

5. Feeling nothing of the ascending motion, the first impression that takes possession of you, in "going up” in a balloon, is the quietude, the silence, that grows more and more entire. The restless heaving to and fro of the huge inflated sphere above your head (to say nothing of the noise of the crowd), the flapping of ropes, the rustling of silk and the creaking of the basket-work of the car,-all has ceased. There is a total cessation of all atmospheric resistance. You sit in a

silence which becomes more perfect every second. After the bustle of many moving objects, you stare before you into blank air.

6. So much for what you first feel; and now what is the thing you first do? In this case everybody is alike. We all do the same thing. We look over the side of the car. We do this very cautiously, keeping a firm seat, as though we clung to it by a certain attraction of cohesion, and then, holding on by the edge, we carefully protrude the peak of our traveling-cap, and then the tip of the nose, over the edge of the car, upon which we rest our mouth. Everything below is seen in so new a form, so flat, compressed and so simultaneously so much too-much-at-a-time-that the first look is hardly so satisfactory as could be desired. But soon we thrust the chin fairly over the edge and take a good stare downward, and this repays us much better. Objects appear under very novel circumstances from this vertical position. They are stunted and foreshortened and rapidly flattened to a map-like appearance; they get smaller and smaller and clearer and clearer.

7. Away goes the earth, with its hills and valleys, its trees and buildings, its men, women and children, its horses and cattle, its rivers and vessels, all sinking lower and lower, and becoming less and less, but getting more and more distinct and defined as they diminish in size. But, besides the retreat toward minuteness, the outspread objects flatten as they lessen; men and woman are five inches high, then four, three, two, one inch, and now a speck. As for the Father of Rivers, he becomes a dusky-gray, winding streamlet, and his largest ships are no more than flat, pale decks, all the masts and rigging being foreshortened to nothing. We soon come, now, to the shadowy, the indistinct, and then all is lost in air. Floating clouds fill up the space beneath.

"Calm, sir-calm and

8. How do we feel, all this time? resigned." Yes, and more than this. After a little while, when you find nothing happens, and see nothing likely to happen a delightful serenity takes the place of all other sensa

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