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Jane. I have well bethought me of my duties : oh, how extensive they are! what a goodly and fair inheritance! But tell me, would you command me never more to read Cicero, and Epictetus,' and Plutarch,' and Polybius ? The others I do resign; they are good for the arbor and for the gravel-walk; yět leave unto me, I beseech you, my friend and father, leave unto me for my fireside and for my pillow, truth, eloquence, coŭrage, constancy.

As. Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy child-bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotlèss, undrooping lily, they have fenced thee right well. These are the men for men; these are to fashion the bright and blessed creatures whom God one day shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom.' Mind thou thy husband.

Jane. I sincerely love the youth (yooth) who hath espoused me; I love him with the fondest, the most solicitous affection; I pray to the Almighty for his goodness and happiness, and do forgět at times—unworthy supplicant !—the prayers I should have offered for myself. Never fear that I will disparage my kind religious teacher, by disobedience to my husband in the most trying duties.

As. Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous; but time will harden him : time must harden even thee, sweet Jane! Do thou, complacently and indirectly, lead him from ambition.

Jane. He is contented with me and with home.

As. Ah, Jane! Jane! men of high estate grow tired of contentedness.

Jane. He told me he never liked books unless I read them to him : I will read them to him every morning ; I will open new worlds to him richer than those discovered by the Spaniard ; I

1 Ep'ic te'tus, a stoic philosopher, of “Moralia” or “Ethical Works,” the moralist of Rome, lived about 90 amount to upward of sixty. They years after Christ. His moral wri.

are pervaded by a kind, humane distings are justly very celebrated. position, and a love of every thing

? Plutarch, (plū' tårk), an eminent that is ennobling and excellent. ancient philosopher and writer, au. Po lờb' i us, a celebrated Greek thor of “Parallel Lives," which con- historian and statesman, was born in tains the biography of forty-six dis- Arcadia, B.C. 203. He wrote a “Uni. tinguished Greeks and Romans, was versal History” in forty books, of born in Chæronea, a city of Boeotia, which we have only five complete, about 50 years after Christ. His writ- and an abridgment of twelve others. ings, comprehended under the title * Bosom, (bůz' um).

will conduct him to treasures-oh what treasures! on which he may sleep in innocence and peace.

As. Rather do thou walk with him, ride with him, play with him—be his faery, his page, his ěvery thing that love and poëtry have invented,—but watch him well ; sport with his fancies; turn them about like the ringlets round his cheek ; and if ever he meditate on power, go toss up thy baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into his heart by the music of thy discourse. Teach him to live unto God and unto thee; and he will discover that women, like the plants in woods, derive their softness and tenderness from the shade.

LANDOR. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born in Warwick, England, on the 30th of Jan. uary, 1775, and was educated at Rugby and Oxford. He first resided at Swansea, in Wales, dependent on his father for a small income, where he commenced his “Imaginary Conversations,” a work which alone establishes his fame. His first publication was a small volume of poems, dated 1793. On succeeding to the family estate he became entirely independent, and was enabled to indulge to the fullest his propensity to literature. He left England in 1806, married in 1814, and went to Italy the following year, where he has since chiefly resided. His collected works, of prose and verse, were published in 1846, in two large volumes. Mr. Landon is a poet of great originality and power. But he is most favorably known now, as he will be by posterity, for hisprose productions, which, written in pure nervous English, are full of thoughts that fasten themselves on the mind, and are“ a joy forever.” His “Imaginary Conversations," from which the preceding dialogue was selected, is a very valuable work. It is rich in scholarship; full of imagination, wit, and humor; correct, concise, and pure in style; various in interest, and universal in sympathy. He died at Florence, Sept. 17, 1864.



THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart,

Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching benēath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,

As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
2. He had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye

in Ath'ens the cold gaze
Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him
For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came
And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,

And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer
Passed on; and when, with wearinėss o’erspent,
He bowed his head in a forgětful cleep,
The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats
Of torture to his children, summoned back

The ebbing blood into his pallid face.
3 Twas evening, and the half-descended sun

Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Ath'ens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed. He had börne up
With a stout heart that long and weary day,
Haughtily patient of his many wrongs;
But now he was alone, and from his nerves
The needless strength departed, and he leaned
Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts

Thrõng on him as they would. 4.

Unmarked of him,
Parrhasius' at the nearest pillar stood,
Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek
Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye
The moving picture. The abandoned limbs,
Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins
Swollen to purple fullness; the gray hair,
Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes ;
And as a thought of wilder bitterness
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of his bloodlèss face

Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.
5. The golden light into the painter's room

Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures rādiantly forth,

And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Parrhasius, (păr rā' ziủs), a distin- Parrhasius having exhibited a piece, guished painter of antiquity, born Zeuxis said, “Remove your curtain about the year 450 B. C., was a native that we may see your painting.” of Ephesus, though others say he was The curtain was the painting. Zeuxis an Athenian, and the rival of Zeuxis. acknowledged his defeat, saying, The latter painted grapes so natur

“ Zeuxis has deceived birds, but ally that birds came to pick them. Parrhasius has deceived Zeuxis.”

Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
The walls were hung with armor, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cythēris,' and Diän,' and stern Jove,'
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotěsque long shadows, full and true,
And, like a vail of filmy měllowness,

The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. 6. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgětfully

Upon his canvas. There Promē’theūs * lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lěm'nään' festering in his flesh ;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shădows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye,
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,

Were like the winged god’s, breathing from his flight 7. “Bring me the captive now!

My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.


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Cy thē' ris, a celebrated courte- thology, was son of the Titan Sapetus san, the mistress of Antony, and sub- and Clymene. His name signifies sequently of the poet Gallus, who forethought. For offenses against Jumentions her in his poems under the piter, he was chained to a rock on name of Lycoris.

Mount Caucasus, where an eagle con. Diana, (di à' na), an ancient Ital- sumed in the daytime his liver, which ian divinity, whom the Romans iden- was restored in eachsucceedingnight

. tified with the Greek Artemis. Ac- 6 Lem' ni an, from Lemnos, now cording to the mostancient accounts, Stalimni, an island of the Greek Arshe was the daughter of Jupiter and chipelago, where the lame HephæsLeto, and the twin sister of Apollo. tus, or Vulcan, the god of fire, is said

Jõve, Jupiter, the supreme deity to have fallen, when Jupiter hurled of the Romans, called Zeus by the him down from heaven. Hence the Greeks.

workshop of the god is sometimes • Pro mē' thoūs, in heathen my placed in this island.



“Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!-as Promē'theūs in my picture here!
Quick-or he faints !--stand with the cordial near!

Now-bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!

And tear agape that healing wound afresh! 9.

“So-let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine


his brow!
Hal gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!

Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan! 10. “ 'Pity' thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar-
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?

I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine-

What were ten thousand to a fame like mine. 11. “ Hereafter!' Ay-hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the skeptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story-

And I may take some softer path to glory. 12. No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!

Strain well thy fainting eye-
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,

The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 13. “Yět there's a děathlèss name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-

And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,

By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on! 14. Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-

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