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resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the 90 brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which 95 Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance thou hast been brought hither. I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before." Obi- 100 dah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

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Son," said the hermit, "let the errors and follies, the danger and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the jour- 105 ney of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigor and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gayety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the straight road of piety, towards the mansions of rest. In a short time, we remit our 110 fervor, and endeavor to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we 115 resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes 120 upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which

we, for a while, keep in our sight, and to which we 125 purpose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and 130 quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look 135 back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.

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'Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that, though 140 the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return, after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage 145 from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and, when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."

EXERCISE II.

Night Scene in an American Forest.-CHATEAUBRIAND

I had wandered one evening in a vast forest, at some distance from the cataract of Niagara. I soon beheld the day gradually extinguished around me, and enjoyed, in all its solitude, the beauteous prospect of

night amid the deserts of the New World. An hour 5 after sunset, the moon appeared above the trees in the opposite horizon. A balmy breeze, which the queen of night brought with her from the east, seemed to precede her in the forests, like her perfumed breath. The lonely luminary slowly ascended in the heavens, now peace- 10 fully pursuing her azure course, and now reposing on groups of clouds, which resembled the summits of lofty, snow-covered mountains. These clouds, folding or expanding their veils, rolled themselves out into transparent zones of white satin, dispersed into light flakes of 15 foam, or formed in the heavens bright beds of down, so lovely to the eye, that you would have imagined you felt their softness and their elasticity.

The scenery on the earth was not less enchanting. The soft and bluish beams of the moon darted through 20 the intervals between the trees, and threw streams of light into the obscurity of the most profound darkness. The river that glided at my feet, was now lost in the woods, and now re-appeared, glistening with the constellations of night, which were reflected on its bosom. In 25 a vast plain beyond this stream, the radiance of the moon reposed without motion on the verdure. Birch trees, scattered here and there in the savanna, and agitated by the breeze, formed islands of floating shadows on a motionless sea of light. Near to me all was silence 30 and repose, save the fall of some leaf, the transient rustling of a sudden breath of wind, or the rare and interrupted hootings of the owl; but at a distance was heard, at intervals, the solemn roar of the falls of Niagara, which, amid the calm of night, was prolonged 35 from desert to desert, and died away among the solitary forests. The grandeur, the astonishing sublimity of this scene, human language is inadequate to exqress; nor can the most delightful nights in Europe afford any idea

of them. In vain imagination seeks to extend itself in 40 our cultivated fields; it everywhere meets the habitations of men. But in these desert regions, the mind loves to penetrate into an ocean of forests, to wander on the banks of prodigious lakes, to soar above the abysses of cataracts, and, as it were, to find itself alone before 45 God.

EXERCISE III.

Sorrow for the Dead.-W. IRVING.

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The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open—this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. * * * Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom; yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. 10 There is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave!— the grave! It buries every error- —covers every defect-extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender 15 recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him?

But the grave of those we love—what a place for 20 meditation! Then it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the

thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; then it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tender- 25 ness, of the parting scene - the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities — the last testimonies of expiring love

the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, -oh! how thrilling! pressure of the hand-the last fond look of the glazing 30 eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence — the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!

Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every 35 past benefit unrequited-every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent— 40 if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth-if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in 45 thee if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; —then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking 50 dolefully at thy soul;- then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beau- 55 ties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes

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