FEMALE EDUCATION.-No. III. BY SILVERPEN. THERE are two habits, which, generally speaking, lie at the root of much of the female morality of the middle and upper classes of society, and at much of the female immorality of the operative masses. I allude to the fact, that, on the one hand, the young girl or young woman never, under any possible circumstances, enters a gin-shop or public-house, or is out alone in the streets after nightfall; whilst on the other hand, many young women more or less frequent these places, and carry on their courtships and gossiping acquaintanceships at lane-ends, and court ends, and in the streets, after the evening has closed around. Now, whilst many of our most important social questions can only be solved by the descent, as it were, of our higher and middle classes to a plainer, less ostentatious mode of life, so it is equally true that the same questions need a visible ascent through self-improvement and education of the moralities of the operative masses. And nothing would assist this great need further than that young women of the working classes should repudiate these habits with all the earnestness they can. What is immoral in the sight of, and distasteful to, one class, must surely be so for another; for 1 can neither believe in, nor understand, any natural inequality in the morals of progressive human creatures; and as I earnestly wish to give good counsel, let this habit of entering public-houses, or of considering them as fitting places of amusement, be for ever set aside by those young women who can understand and really value in all their worth a pure reputation and a progress in refinement and morals. Of course I do not here include errands, or small matters of business, which may occasionally take a young woman within a public-house, as into a shop or other dwelling, for I undoubtedly address myself to many unconnected with the temperance question, viewed strictly in its relation to total abstinence; what I mean here is, the habitual or occasional frequenting public-houses and gin-shops as places of refreshment and amusement. But in neither sense are they worthy of the name. As to courtships and acquaintanceships carried on in the streets after nightfall, they are not well. Even as to habits, generally speaking, they are out of place with womanly selfrespect, for though protected by a lover, much must be heard and seen by a young woman that it were best she was ignorant of. I know allowance must be made for those whose work confines them through the day, and who may have no cheerful, cleanly home to receive, or kind parents to invite a lover; yet I feel sure as a rule that young women of the operative classes are so unaware of the immense intellectual advance of many of the young men amongst whom they naturally look for admirers and husbands, as scarcely to bring fitting habits of reserve and womanly delicacy to bear upon the general fact of their intercourse. But let this matter be better understood. Men of the operative classes, men working in shops and factories in Birmingham, in mills and warehouses in Manchester, in mills in Leeds, Huddersfield, and Derby, are making an immense advance in intelligence, in clear far-seeing thought, in those self-restraints that honour body and soul; and would, I firmly believe, reverence and respect any advance young women might make in modest circumspection. Many such men are ultimately drawn down to the level of a woman's coarseness and low habits; but there are others, and the number must necessarily increase as they make intellectual advance, who would rather remain single than trust their own and children's future welfare to those who lightly pace the streets at nightfall, even though with themselves, or who can find charins in the low conviviality of the beer or gin-shop. It only as a matter of prudence, it therefore behoves young women of the operative classes to shape their habits and behaviour in accordance with the moral and intellectual advance of those amongst whom they look for husbands. It may be said that those who have little or no time through the day, are necessarily led into the streets by night by their need of visiting shops for the purchase of apparel, and other things. Occasionally such a want may arise; but, generally speaking, a portion of the noon-day hour would be better spared for purposes of this sort, particularly when it is recollected that the large class of shopkeepers, who usually supply the young female operative with her gown or shawl, trust to the deceptive glare of gaslight to set off an inferior, if gayer class of goods, than they would be unable to dispose of it viewed closely by daylight, or by those of more educated taste. A habit of gossip and tittle-tattle is an intensely low and vulgar thing. To prate and be curious about other people's affairs is so mean and paltry as to merit the heartiest con. tempt of any one ordinarily intelligent, or possessing any generosity of character; and I do not care if gossip be the habit of a duchess or a maid-servant, a mill hand or one calling herself a gentlewoman," it is equally the mark of a mean spirit and of low breeding. Not that I ignore interest, and sympathy, and love. Let there be more of these, let every channel of human life fill to overflowing, for there is need; but those who would give proof of education, who aim at the moral advance that social interests require, can have no time, and should have no taste, for what is only fitted, to What in the world say the least, for the weak and trifling. can it matter to one young woman how many gowns and how many sweethearts another has? or to the Browns what the Smiths next door have for dinner, or whether they are prudent or imprudent in doing such and such a thing? Besides, to say nothing of the waste of time, of the consequent neglect of duties, and of the invariability of a love of gossip being connected with other bad habits, it begets more or less a vicious love of scandal. And think what this scandal often is! Think that it is the defamation of one woman's character by another, and often for no worse cause than "devil's envy;" that the one defamed is purer, prettier, kinder-hearted, or is more a favourite. The whole round of human wrong-which is unfortunately a pretty wide one-has no more flagrant evil than this, of one woman speaking dispitefully of another, of putting the worst construction upon every action of judgment by mere hearsay. But the pure in act, the kindly in heart, the generous in spirit, will always speak and judge mercifully, especially of their own sex; and I know of no more lovely, more in the best senses religious, no more nobly feminine habit, than that women, young women especially, should speak and think of their own sex with kindness and mercy. Let the vice of evil-speaking and scandal be left to the painted dowagers of the higher classes, to the ill-conditioned spinsters and vulgar mammas of the middle class, to the low, coarse women of the working classes; but let the young women of the operative masses, the sisters, the future wives of thought'ul working men, give proof of a genial advance in the needed direction of moral habits and moral duties, by avoiding this low-bred vice of scandal; this vice of lane-ends, street-ends, and courtways; this vice which gentlemen who write Blue Books for parliament deplore as one of the signs of a low condition of the people. Nor can I pass from this question without a word as to a habit worthy of the utmost condemnation by all good and earnest young women. I allude to the love of impure conversation, either as listener or speaker. Such conversation may be said to be in jest, or in fun; its purpose may be hidden like an evil face with a fair mask, by words expressing one thing but really meaning another; but it is not the less impure for that; and if such "jokes" are habitually indulged in or listened to, the end may prove terrible in its earnestness; because I firmly believe that no individual can indulge in any kind of gross conversation without acquiring a proportionate depravity of character. I do not wish it to be thought for a moment that I am writing a series of moral sermons to the working classes; I am only speaking earnestly from my heart, what my experience of life and my knowlede of books have taught me, and to declare with pride, which nothing could shake or bow, that in all which is most lovely in the feminine character God made all women akin; and be her heart and conversation but pure, and her efforts after self-improvement earnest, the poorest mill-girl that Manchester may hold, stands side by side, in all the best moral aspect of human life, with the highest, purest lady in the land. It makes me proud to think and know this; let it make those rightly proud who will read what I now write; let them strive for this pure heart, these pure lips; let them avoid as companions and friends all who indulge in gross habits or gross conversation, whether at home, in the mill or shop, or in the street; and if carried on in their presence, let them strive to suppress it, or, to her hands strengthened every root. How was she ever to this unavailing, let them have the ears of the deaf. My expe- descend? That fear, then, but once crossed her heart, as up rience has shown me, that women who have a taste for this-up-up-to the little image made of her own flesh and blood. class of conversation, and I have known a few "ladies" of "The God who holds me now from perishing, -will not the education incline this way, are always more or less low in same God save me, when my child is on my bosom?" Down morals and bad at heart; whilst no moment in my friend'y came the fierce rushing of the eagles' wings, -each savage bird intercourse with those of noble lives and noble characters has dashing close to her head, so that she saw the yellow of their ever been sullied by one thought, one word, or act, that the wrathful eyes. All at once they quailed and were cowed. world might not know, or hear, or see; and I have risen, as 1 Yelling, they flew off to the stump of an ash jutting out of the always rise, with my conviction strengthened of the beau ycliff, a thousand feet above the cataract; and the Christian and enormous moral worth of purity in the habits and con- mother falling across the eyrie, in the midst of bones and blood, versation of our sex. If this is so, let it be a beauty and a clasping her child,-dead-dead-dead,- -no doubt,—but unmoral worth amongst us in poor homes, in mills, in factories, mangled and untorn, and swaddled up, just as it was, when in shops; it is a beauty and moral worth that shall make a she laid it down asleep, among the fresh hay, in a nook of the gentlewoman of the poorest worker; and therefore let par-harvest field. liamentary commissioners and writers upon social progress be presently conscious of its advance, and record it as a sign of sterling and great significance. LESSONS IN READING AND ELOCUTION. No. XXI. CHILD CARRIED AWAY BY AN EAGLE. THE great Golden Eagle, the pride and the pest of the parish, stooped down, and away with something in his talons. One single sudden female shriek,-and then shouts and outcries, as if a church spire had tumbled down on a congregation at a sacrament! "Hannah Lamond's bairn! Hannah Lamond's hairn!" was the loud fast-spreading cry. "The eagle's ta'en off Hannah Lamond's bairn! and many hundred feet were in another instant hurrying towards the mountain. Two miles, of hill, and dale, and copse, and shingle, and many intersecting brooks, lay between; but, in an incredibly short time, the foot of the mountain was alive with people. The eyrie was well known, and both old birds were visible on the rock-ledge. But who shall scale that dizzy cliff, which Mark Steuart, the sailor, who had been at the storming of many a fort, attempted in vain? All kept gazing, weeping, wringing of hands in vain, rooted to the ground, or running back and forwards, like so many ants essaying their new wings in discomfiture. "What's the use,-what's the use, o'ony puir human means? We have no power but in prayer!" and many knelt down,-fathers and mothers thinking of their own babies, as if they would force the deaf heavens to hear! Hannah Lamond had all this while been sitting on a rock, with a face perfectly white,-and eyes like those of a mad person, fixed on the eyrie. Nobody had noticed her; for strong as all sympathies with her had been at the swoop of the eagle, they were row swallowed up in the agony of eye sight. "Only last sabbath was my sweet wee wean baptized, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" and, on uttering these words, she flew off through the brakes, and over the huge stones, up-up-up-faster than ever huntsman ran in to the death,-fearless as a goat playing among the precipices. No one doubted, no one could doubt, that she would soon be dashed to pieces. But have not people who walk in their sleep, obedient to the mysterious guidance of dreams, climbed the walls of old ruins, and found footing, even in decrepitude, along the edge of unguarded battlemen's, and down dilapidated stair cases, deep as draw. wells, or coal-pits, and returned with open, fixed, and unseeing eyes, unharmed to their beds, at midnight? It is all the work of the soul, to whom the body is a slave; and shall not the agony of a mother's passion,who sees her baby, whose warm mouth had just left her breast, hurried off by a demon to a hideous death,-bear her limbs aloft wherever there is dust to dust, till she reach that devouring den, and fiercer and more furious far, in the passion of love, than any bird of prey that ever bathed its beak in blood, throttle the fiends that with their heavy wings would fain flap her down the cliff, and hold up her child, in deliver ance, before the eye of the all-seeing God! No stop, no stay,-she knew not that she drew her breath. Beneath her feet Providence fastened every loose stone, and Oh! what a pang of perfect blessedness transfixed her heart from that faint feeble cry:-"It lives-it lives-it lives!' and baring her bosom, with loud laughter, and eyes dry as stones, she felt the lips of the unconscious innocent once more murmuring at the fount of life and love! "O Thou great, and thou dreadful God! whither hast thou brought me,-one of the most sinful of thy creatures? Oh! save my soul, lest it perish, even for thy own name's sake! O thou, who diedst to save sinners, have mercy upon me!" Cliffs, chasms, blocks of stone, and the skeletons of old trees,-far-far down, and dwindled into specks, a thousand creatures of her own kind, stationary, or running to and fro! Was that the sound of the waterfall, or the faint roar of voices? Is that her native strath?-and that tuft of trees, does it contain the hut in which stands the cradle of her child? Never more shall it be rocked by her foot! Here must she die,-and when her breast is exhausted, her baby too! And those horrid beaks, and eyes, and talons, and wings, will return; and her child will be devoured at last, even within the dead bosom that can protect it no longer. Where all this while was Mark Steuart, the sailor? Half way up the cliffs. But his eye had got dim, and his head dizzy, and his heart sick ;-and he who had so often reefed the top-gallant sail, when at midnight the coming of the gale was heard afar, covered his face with his hands, and dared look no longer on the swimming heights. "And who will take care of my poor bed-ridden mother?" thought Hannah, whose soul, through the exhaustion of so many passions, could no more retain, in its grasp, that hope which it had clutched in despair. A voice whispered, "God!" She looked around, expecting to see an angel;-but nothing moved, except a rotten branch, that, under its own weight, broke off from the crumbling rock. Her eye,-by some secret sympathy of her soul with the inanimate object,-watched its fall; and it seemed to stop, not far off, on a small platform. Her child was bound within her bosom,-she remembered not how or when,-but it was safe;-and scarcely daring to open her eyes, she slid down the shelving rocks, and found herself on a small piece of firm root-bound soil, with the tops of bushes appearing below. With fingers suddenly strengthened into the power of iron, she swung herself down by brier, and broom, and heather, and dwarf-birch. There, a loosened stone leapt over a ledge; and no sound was heard, so profound was its fall. There the shingle rattled down the screes, and she hesitated not to follow. Her feet bounded against the huge stone that stopped them, but she felt no pain. Her body was callous as the cliff. Steep as the wall of a house, was now the side of the precipice. But it was matted with ivy centuries old,-long ago dead, and without a single green leaf,-but with thousands of arm-thick stems, petrified into the rock, and covering it as with a trellis. She bound her baby to her neck, and with hands and feet clung to that fearful ladder. Turning round her head and looking down, lo! the whole population of the parish,— -so great was the multitude, on their knees! and hush! the voice of psalms! a hymn breathing the spirit of one united prayer! Sad and solemn was the strain,—but nothing dirgelike,-breathing not of death, but deliverance. Often had she sung that tune-perhaps the very words, but them she heard not,-in her own hut, she and her mother, or in the kirk, along with all the congregation. An unseen hand seemed fastening her fingers to the ribs of ivy; and, in sudden inspiration, believing that her life was to be saved, she became almost as fearless, as if she had been changed into a winged creature. Again her feet touched stones and earth, the psalm was hushed, but a tremulous sobbing vice was close beside her and lo! a she-goat, with two litle kids at her feet. Wild heights," thought she, "do these creatures climb;-but the dam will lead down her kid by the easiest paths, for oh! even in the brute creatures, what is the holy power of a mother's love!" and turning round her head, she kissed her sleeping baby, and for the first time she wept. Overhead frowned the front of the precipice, never touched before by human hand or foot. No one had ever dreamt of scaling it; and the golden eagles knew that well in their instinct as, before they built their eyrie, they had brushed it with their wings. But all the rest of this part of the mountain-side, though scarred, and seamed, and chasmed, was yet accessible; and more than one person in the parish had reached the bottom of the Glead's Ciff. Many were now attempting it, and ere the cautious mother had followed her dumb guides » hundred yards, though among dangers, that although enough to terrify the stoutest heart, were traversed by her without a shudder, the head of one man appeared, and then the head of another; and she knew that God had delivered her and her child, in safety, into the care of their fellow-creatures. Not a word was spoken, eyes said enough,-she hushed her friends with her hands, and with uplifted eyes, pointed to the guides sent to her by heaven. Small green plats, where those creatures nibble the wild flowers, became now more frequent, -trodden lines, almost as easy as sheep-paths, showed tha the dam had not led her young into danger; and now the brush-wood dwindled away into straggling shrubs; and the party stood on a little eminence above the stream, and forming part of the strath. There had been trouble and agitation, much sobbing, and many tears, among the multitude, while the mother was scaling the cliffs :-sublime was the shout that echoed afar the moment she reached the eyrie;-then had succeeded a silence deep as death;-in a little while arose the hymning prayer, succeeded by mute supplication;-the wildness of thankful and congratulatory joy had next its sway;-and now that her salvation was sure, the great crowd rustled like the wind-swept wood. And for whose sake was all this alternation of agony? A poor, humble creature, unknown to many even by name,-one who had but few friends, nor wished for more, contented to work all day, here, there, any where, that she might be able to support her aged mother and her little child,-and who on Sabbath took her sea in an obscure pew, set apart for paupers, in the kirk.-Professor Wilson. TO THE CONDOR Wondrous, majestic bird: whose mighty wing Proud nursling of the tempest, where repose Dost thou in silence, breathless and alone,- The mountain's frozen peak is lone and bare; The limits of thy course no daring eye The gorgeous sun thy quenchless gaze may share; Imperial wanderer! the storms that shake Earth's towers, and bid her rooted mountains quakė, Beyond the bolt,-beyond the lightning's gleam, And thus the soul, with upward flight like thine, Yet meaner cares oppress its drooping wings; SCENE AT THE DEDICATION OF AN HEATHEN TEMPLE. As we drew near the lofty fabric, I thought that no scene of such various beauty and magnificence had ever met my eye. The temple itself is a work of unrivalled art. In size, it surpasses any other building of the same kind in Rome, and for the excellence of workmanship, and purity of design, although it may fall below the standard of Hadrian's age, yet for a certain air of grandeur, and luxuriance of invention, in its details, and lavish profusion of emblishment in gold and silver, no temple nor other edifice of any preceding age, ever perhaps resembled it. Its order is Corinthian, of the Roman form, and the entire building is surrounded by its slender columns, each composed of a single piece of marble. Upon the front is wrought Apollo surrounded by the Hours. The western extremity is approached by a flight of steps, of the same breadth as the temple itself. At the eastern, there extends beyond the walls, to a distance equal to the length of the building, a marble platform, upon which stands the altar of sacrifice, and which is ascended by various flights of steps, some little more than a gently rising plain, up which the beasts are led that are destined to the altar. When this vast extent of wall and column, of the most dazzling brightness, came into view, every where covered, together with the surrounding temples, palaces, and theatres, with a dense mass of human beings of all climes and regions, dressed out in their richest attire.-music, from innumerable instruments, filling the heavens with harmony,-shouts of the proud and excited populace, every few moments, and from different points, as Aurelian advanced, shaking the air with its thrilling din,-the neighing of horses, the frequent blasts of the trumpet,-the whole made more solemnly imposing by the vast masses of cloud, which swept over the sky, now suddenly unveiling, and again eclipsing, the sun, the great god of this idolatry, and from which few could withdraw their gaze; when, at once, this all broke upon my eye and ear, I was like a child who before had never seen aught but his own village, and his own rural temple, in the effect wrought upon me, and the passiveness with which I abandoned myself to the sway of the senses. No one there was more ravished by the outward circumstances and show. I thought of Rome's thousand years, of her power, her greatness, and universal empire, and, for a moment, my, step was not less proud than that of Aurelian. But after that moment,-when the senses had had their fill, when the eye had seen the glory, and the ear had fed upon the harmony and the praise, then I thought and flt very differently; sorrow and compassion, for these gay multitudes, were at my heart; prophetic forebodings of disaster, danger, and ruin to those, to whose sacred cause I had linked myself, made my tongue to falter in its sp-ech, and my limbs to tremble. I thought that the superstition, which was upheld by the wealth and the power, whose manifestations were before me, had its roots in the very centre of the earth,-far too deep down for a few, like myself, ever to reach them. I was like one whose last hope of life and escape is suddenly struck away. I was roused from these meditations by our arrival at the eastern front of the temple. Between the two central columns, on a throne of gold and ivory, sat the emperor of the world, surrounded by the senate, the colleges of augurs and haru pices, and by the priests of the various temples of the capital, all in their peculiar costume. Then Fronto, the priest of the temple, when the crier had proclaimed that the hour of wor ship and sacrifice had come, and had commanded silence to be observed, standing at the altar, glittering in his white and golden robes, like a messenger of light,-bared his head, and lifting his face up towards the sun, offered in clear and sounding tones the prayer of dedication. It is impossible to describe the horror that seized those multitudes. Many cried out with fear, and each seemed to shrink behind the other. Paleness sat upon every face. The priest paused, as if struck by a power from ab ›ve. Even the brazen Fronto was appalled. Aurelian leapt from his seat, and by his countenance, white and awe-struck, showed that to him it came, as a voice from the gods, He spoke not, but stood gazing at the dark entrance into the temple, from which the sound had come. Fronto hastily approached him, and whispering but one word, as it were, into his ear, the emperor started; the spell that bound him was dissolved; and recovering himself,-making, indeed, as though a very different feeling had possessed him,-cried out in fierce tones, to his guards, "Search the temple! some miscreant, hid away anong the columns, profanes thus the worship and the place. Seize him, and drag him forth to instant death!" LESSONS IN ITALIAN GRAMMAR.-No. XXXII. Of the University of Pavia, and Professor of the Italian and German II. As he came toward the close of his prayer, he, as is so usual, with loud and almost frantic cries, and importunate repetition, called upon the god to hear him, and then, with appropriate names and praises, invoked the Father of gods and Il signor N. mi ha in-vi-á-to al prán-zo; pên-so, che vi men to be present and hear. Just as he hal thus solemnly tro-ve-ỏ ú-na nu-me-ró-sa com-pa-gní-a. U-sci-tà E'l·la &g-gi invoked Jupiter by name, and was about to call on the other a ca-vá-lo? Le mi-e soêl-le ar-ri-ve-an-no prê-sto. Pietro gods in the same manner, the clouds which had been deepen- vi ren-de-và túr-to quél-lo ch' égli ha pé-so. Perchè non mi ing and darkening, suddenly obscured the sun; a distant peal na E'l-la ren-dú...to il mi-o sa-lúšto? – Ú-na vôl-ta ren-de-té-mo of thunder rolled along the heavens, and, at the same moment, cónaro dél-le nô-stre a-zió-ni. Ri-spon-de-rò á'-la Sú-a lê ́-te-ra from the dark recesses of the temple, a voice of preternatural i nô-ve di questo mé-se. Quádo fi-ni-ré-te với? A-vrê-i power came forth, proclaiming, so that the whole multitude già f-ni-to, El-la non m' -vé-se im-pe-di-to. Fie heard, the words,-"God is but one; the King eternal, immor-x-dún-que. Av-ver-ti-1ò̟ Sú-o pá-dre dél-la di Lê-i ne-gli-gên, tal, invisible !"' za. Man-ge-tê-i un fi-co, se non termésesi il mal di denti. Non ven-de-tê-i la mi-a pí-pa di schiú-ma di má-re, se le cir-co-s án-ze non mi ob-hli-gá--se-ro. Se vói a-má-ste ve-ra. mén-te la lín-gua i-ta-lia-na, la stu-die-é-ste con pù dielie gên-z1. Vor-tê-i che vói ter-mi-ná-ste l'ô-ne-ra che avete co-min-ciá-ta. Gio-ván-ni, pôrita su-si-ne, pé-re e pó-mi. Mi ri-spón-da, il più prê-sto possi-bi-le. Sóm-ma qué,si nú. me-ri: trô-ve-rá-i ú-na sóm-ma di tre cên-10 no-van-ta nô-ve zec-chí-ni d'ô-ro. Guar-da-te+vi, qué-sto ca-ne môr-de; non lo bat-té-te. Go-de-te, a-mi-co mí-o, del rispô-so e dél-la fortú-na che me-ri-ta-te! Ub-bi-dí- e ai ge-ni-tó-ri, di-mo-strå-te si-ma ai pre-cet-to-ri, e non con-trad-di-te ai su-pe-rió-ri. A-vé-te com-prá-to tê-i lí-bri, im-pre-stá-te-me-li, dá-te-me-ne al-mé-no al-cú-ni. Mo-strá-te-mi la pén-na che a-vé-te temprá-ta. Il vô-stro tem-pe-ri-no non tá-glia più. Se avete di-man-dá-to il mí-o, ve lo a-vrê-i pre-stá-to con pia-cé-re. Brá-ma El-la, che L'ac-com-pá-gni`ál·la pas-se-giá-ta? La rin-grá-zio, La prê-go di re-s1á-re a cá-sa, af-fin,chè í-o La trôi, quan-do ri-tor-ne-rò. Lêg-go mól-to, ma non cre-dé-te, che lêg-ga trôp-po. Vô-glio, che spés-so par-liá-te i-talia-no, e vói mi ub-bi-di-ré-te. Cie-do, che i miê-i cu-gi-ni mi pághi-no ôg-gi, e che mi rên-da-no il libro, che ho loro presta-to. Mi con-lí-di il Sú-o cor-dô-glio, s' E'l-la vuô-le, ch' -o La con-só-li. Quest' o-ro-lô-gio non va bé-ne, man-da-te-lo dali' o-riuo-lá-jo, at-in-chè lo ri-pá-ri. Té-mo, che non nê vi-chi qué-sta sé-ra. Non cré-do, che piô-va ôg-gi. Non è si-cú-ro, ch' é-gli pár-ta di-ma-ni. Mi-a má-dre non vuô-le, ch' 1-0 a-spêr-ti più a lún-go. Non sf-tri-rò, ch' E'l-la fú-mi ta-ba-co. Mi pare, ch'i-o non m' in-gan-ni. E' bên trísto, ch' E'l-la áb-bia per-dú-to tán-to da-na-ro. E'-ra im-pos-si. bi-le, ch' E'l-la ar·ri-vás-se in dú-e giór-ni. Il nô-stro sêc-vo è il più gran pol-tró-ne, ch'í-n co-nó-sca. Il mio vidí-no dil più bra-vo uô-mo, ch' í-o áb-bia ve-dú-to. Mo-strá-te-mi ú-no che non abbia má-i com-més-so un fål-lo. A'-ma il tú-o prôssi-mo. Per-dó-na ai tuô-i ne-mi-ci. O'-gni o-mê-sto uô-mo pá-ghi i suô-i dé-bisti. La ser-va cón-ti bê-ne qué-sto da,náro. Giuo-chiamo un po-co ál-le car-te. Pre-di il tuo da-ná-ro. Cór-ri & chia-ma-re il mê-di-co. Scrí-vi a u-a mádre. Be-via-mo in-siê-me un bic-chiê-re di bír-ra. Met-té-te le sê-die in 6r-di-ne. Par-ti di qui, e pár-ta anch' é-gli. A-pri-te la pôr-ta. Non a-vér sêm-pre giuô-chi in cá-po, Non ê--se-re cat-í-vo, fan-ciúl-lo! Gu-gliêl-mo non si-a co-si pi-gro. Non sia-te impa-ziên-ti. Non man-gia-re tan.te su-si-ne. Sí-i al-lé-gro e non te-mé-re niên-te. Non fu má re ta-bac-co út-to il giór-no. Ma-ri-a! non perdere il tuf-o ná-stro. Non a-pri-te le fi-ne-stre, The guards of the emperor, and the servants of the temple, rushed in at that bidding. They soon emerged, saying that the search was fruitless. The temple, in all its aisles and apartments, was empty. The heavens were again obscured by thick clouds, which, accumulating into dark masses, began now nearer and nearer to shoot forth lightning, and roll their thunders. The priest commenced the last office, prayer to the god, to whom the new temple had been thus solemnly consecrated. He again bowed his head, and again lifted up his voice. But no sooner had he invoked the god of the temple, and besought his ear, than again, from its dark interior, the same awful sounds issued forth, this time saying, "Thy gods, Q Rome, are false and lying gods; God is but one!' Aurelian, pale as it seemed to me with superstitious fear, strove to shake it off, giving it, artfully and with violence, the appearance of offended dignity. His voice was a shriek, rather than a human utterance, as it cried out, "This is but a Christian device; search the temple, till the accursed Nazarine be found, and hew him piece-meal!" More he would have said; but, at the instant, a bolt of lightning shot from the heavens, and lighting upon a large sycamore, which shaded a part of the temple-court, clove it in twain. The swollen cloud at the same moment burst, and a deluge of rain poured upon the city, the temple, the gazing multitudes, and the kindled altars. The sacred fires went out, in hissing darkness; a tempest of wind whirled the limbs of the slaughtered victims into the air, and abroad over the neighbouring streets. All was confusion, uproar, terror and dismay. The crowds sought safety in the houses of the nearest inhabitants, and the porches of the palaces. Aurelian and the senators, and those nearest him, fled to the interior of the temple. The heavens blazed with the quick flashing of the lightning; and the temple itself seemed to rock beneath the voice of the thunder. I never knew in Rome so terrific a tempest. The stoutest trembled; for life hung by a thread. Great numbers, it has now been found, in every part of the capitol, fell a prey to the fiery bolts. The capitol itself was struck, and the brass statue of Vespa sian, in the forum, thrown down, and partly melted. The Tiber, in a few hours, overran its banks, and laid much of the city and its borders under water.- William Ware. Il n'y a point de paix pour les méchants.-Isate. a regular person of the | bravo, brave almeno, at least mostrare, to show temprare, to make (a pen) prestare, to lend accompagnare, to accompany ritornare, to return va, goes mandare, to send guardarsi, to look at one's self, sera, evening take care piovere, to rain a lungo, long (of time) parere, to appear, seem ingannarsi, to mistake, be mis taken ben tristo, very unpleasant, sad tanto, so much servo, servant poltrone, sluggard, poltroon dare, to give (irr., but date is vicino, neighbour vedere, to see non-mai, never scrivere, to write bevere, to drink bicchiere, drinking-glass Non Ri-tor-nán do a cá sa hô tro-vá-to vô-stro fra-têl-lo. Non par-lan-do voi i-ta-liá-no, do-vé-te an-no-jár-vi qui. po-tên-do 1-0 u-scf-re ôg-gi, La pré-go di pre-star-mi un buôn }{-bro. Es-ên do am-ma-lá-to, non po-trò an-da-re al bal-lo E-sên-do vô-stro cu-gi-no più di-li gên-te di với, fa-và pro grês-si più rá-pi-di. Non sa-pên-do i-o dó-ve tro-vár-la, so-no ri-tor-a-to. Siamo fe-li-ci con-ten-tán-do-ci di pô-co. Do. vên-do í-o par-í-re dó-po di-má-ni, son ve-nú-to a prên-de-re con-xê-do da Lê-i. Te-mên do nói di sve-glár-la, ab-bia-mo par-la-to tút-to piá-no. E'-gli ve-dên-do-mi in tá-le stá-to, ne sen-ti com-pas-sió-ne. Es-sên-do ve-nú-to tár-di, fú-i e-sclú-so. A-vên-do é-gli dét-to qué-ste pa-rô-le par-tì. A-vên-do í-0 a-spet-tá-to dú-e 6-re, tor-na-i a cá-sa. E'-gli si fé-ce a-már da tút-ti es-sên do con tút-ti ci-vi-le. Non sa-pên do 1-0, s'é-gli ver-têb-be, non vôl-li a-spet-tár-lo più a lún-go. I-o só-no a-má-10 dá-i miê-i con-di-scé-po-li, tu sê-i lo-da-to dal maê-stro. Fe-de-vi-co è pu-ni-to. I buôni fan-chú-li só-no a-ma-ti dá-i 16-ro ge-ni-tó-ri. Il pô-ve-ro è ab-ban-do-ná-to da tút-to il món-do. O-nó-ra tú-o pá-dre e tú-a ma-dre, e sa-ra-i o-no-rá-to. Qué-sto lí-bro sa-rà le-gá-to di-má-ni. Sia-te virtuó-si e ne sa-ré-te cer-ta-men-te pre-mia-ti. I cat-ti-vi sa-rán-no pu-ni-ti un giór-no. En-ri-chét-ta sa-1êb-be lo-da-ta dá-i suô-i maê-stri, se fós-se più di-li-gên-te. Fúm-mo bên trat-ta-ti da nô-stra zí-a, Qué-ti ra-gáz-zi di-li-gên-ti fú-ro-no pre-mia-ti. Il de-fún-to Gu-gliêl-mo ê-ra a-má-to da mól-ti. Tu sê-i stá-to bia-si-má-to dal maê-stro per a-vér ciar-lá-to. Gio-van-ni è stá-to pu-ni-to per non a-vér ter-mi-ná-to il sú-o tê-ma. Par-la-te ad ál-ta vó-ce, af-fin-chè vi si in-tên-da. E tri-sto d'ê-se-re o-dia-to da tút-ti. E'-gli sên-te pia-cér nell' ês-ser lo-da-to. E' giús-to, che il mê-ri-to si-a pre-mia-to. Car-lo vên-ne ca-sti-gá-to per a-vér men-ti-to. Tu ver-iá-i lo-da-to. Ri-má-si e-sclú-so dal 16-ro nú-me-ro. Ri-ma-né-s:i de-lú-so nél-le tú-e a-spet-ta-zió-ni. Il ge-ne-rá-le è ri-má-sto uc-ci-so in bat-tá-glia. Ah-biá-mo côl-to mól-te frá-go-le. Le frá-go-le che ab-biá-mo côl-te só-no de-li-zio-se. La fi-gú-ra che mi-o fra-tê-lo ha di-se-gná-ta ê-ra bel-lís-si-ma. Qué-sto uô-mo si è fat-to mól-ti ne-mi-ci. I ne-mi-ci, ch' é-gli si è far-ti, só-no in-nu-me-rá-bi-li. Ha E'l-la pa-gá-to l'o-s1és-sa? Si, l'hô pa-gå-ta. E'c-co la lê-tera, ch' El-la mi ha det-tá-ta. L' ha El-la lêt-ta? IIa El-la sug-gel-la-ta la mi-a lêt-te-ra ? L'hô sug-gel-la-ta e por-tá-ta ál-la pô-sta. Ab-biá-mo pre • Verbs in ciare, giare, and sciare drop the vowel i in all tenses where it meets with for e, v. g. mangerò tor mangierò. ✦ Active Verbs conjugated by avere requie their participles to agree in number and gender with the accusative case (object) which they govern, and which, along with the nominative case (subject), precedes them; e. g. i rer si che ho fat-li ve li ho it i? the verses that I have made, have igá-to la vô-stra si-gnó-ra so-rêl-la di ve-ní-re a ri-tro-var-ei read them to you? égi ci ha in ri tú-ti, he has invited us; és-sa bál la di-má-ni. Se l' a-vé-te pre-gá-ta, verà cer-ta-mén-te. A-vébể ng t-o l'ho re di-ta bal la re, she dances well. I have seen her dancing. te man-4-to i miêi libri al lé-ga-t6-re di lí-br? Si, ghé-li In these examples fatti agrees with i versi che, letti wi h li (them) invitati hô man-da-ti jê-ri. Mól-ti uc-cêl-li fán-no un ní-do ar-ti-fiwith ci and veduta with la (per), because the nominatives (in the first example to which is understood before ho) and accusatives precede the partició-so; Id-i- gli ha do-tá-ti di quest' ár-te. Co-nó-sce El-la cines, and the latter govern the accusative, as, e, is seen in the questioqué-sta si-guó-ra? Non pôs-so ri-cor-dar-mi d'a-vét-la ve-Whom has he invited?-us. Whom have I seen?-her when she danced) dú-ra. E-ra mi-a so-1êl-la; l'ha E'l-la co-no-sciú-ta? Me ne When the nominative, or subject, follows the verb, the par iciole remains ral-lé-gro d' a-vér-la tro-vá-ta in buô-na sa-lú-te. unchanged, and in most cases it is not changed, when the accusative, or Quán te object, follows, e, g. le fa tí che che hanno sf-fér-to i sol da ti the hard- cô-se ab-biá-mo ve-dú-te! Hô ri-ce-vú-to de' quá-dri. Sa E'l-la, ships which the soldiers have suffered; il Irn tết lo ha scrit to di-e let-te- quán-ti quá-dri í-o hô ri-ce-vú-ti? re, the brother has written two letters. Sofferto does not agree with fatiche, nr scritto with lettere, because the nominative soldati and the accusative lettere follow the verb. VOCABULARY. ammalato, ill, unwell The declension of the pronoun of address is as follows:-Nom. El-la, dovere, must, ought, be oblige potrò. I shall be able n). Lỗi Gen. di Ló-i. Dat. a Lé-i, Le. Acc. Le i, La. Ab.. da annojarsi, to feel annoyed Verbs in care in garo take the letter after c and g when coming qui, here potere, to be able andare, to go |