silence was a quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!" I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery.

9. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then the few moments of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house; the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which held it, begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher"- then, pausing, raising his other, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy, to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice —" but Jesus Christ-like a God!"

แ

10. This man has been before my imagination almost ever since. A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bridle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation from Rousseau; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in despair, and felt persuaded that his peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of soul which nature could give, but which no human being could justly copy. As I recall, at this moment,

several of his awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide with which my blood begins to pour along my arteries, reminds me of the emotions produced by the first sight of Gray's introductory picture of his Bard.— Wirt.

H

LESSON 36.

THE BOYS.

AS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite! Old time is a liar; we 're twenty to-night.

2.

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy, young jackanapes!-show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

3.

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will not see a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

4.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor" and this we call "Judge "! It's a neat little fiction, of course it's all fudge.

5.

That fellow's the "speaker," the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we

chaff;

แ

There's the Reverend what's his name? don't make me laugh.

6.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the Royal Society thought it was true!

So they chose him right in,-- a good joke it was, too.

7.

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire;
We call him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire."

8.

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,—
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

9.

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.

10.

Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with

pen;

And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?