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that are shed over them by one sunrise, or that flow up their cold acclivities at each clear sunset.

The mountains are more grand and inspiring when we stand at the proper distance and look at them than when we look from them. Their highest call is to be restingplaces of the light, the staffs from which the most gorgeous banners of morning and evening are displayed. And these uses we may observe and enjoy among the moderate mountains of New Hampshire.

They are huge lay figures on which Nature shows off the splendors of her aerial wardrobe. She makes them wear mourning-veils of shadow, exquisite lace-work of distant rain, hoary wigs of cloud, the blue costume of northwest winds, the sallow dress of sultry southern airs, white wrappers of dogday fog, purple and scarlet vests of sunset light, gauzy films of moonlight, the gorgeous embroidery of autumn chemistries, the flashing ermine dropped from the winter sky, and the glittering jewelry strewn over their snowy vestments by the cunning fingers of the frost. These are the crops which the intellect and heart find waiting and waving for them, without any effort or care of mortal culture, on the upper barrenness of the hills.

“So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve ;
It is pure use ;
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind
Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse ? ”



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. He has written much in prose and verse; and his writings are characterized by earnestness of tone, high moral purpose, and energy of expression. His spirit is that of a sincere and fearless reformer; and his fervent appeals are the true utterances of a brave and loving heart. The themes of his poetry have been drawn, in a great measure, from the listory, traditions, manners, and scenery of New England; and he has found the elements of poetical interest among them, without doing any violence to truth. He describes natural scenery correctly and beautifully; and a vein of genuine tenderness runs through his writings.

I )

N the old days (a

With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent
Their wisest men to make the public laws;
And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas,
Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,
And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,
Stamford sent up to the councils of the State
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.

’T was on a May-day of the far old year
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the spring,
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland sagas * tell,
The twilight of the gods. The low-hung sky
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim
Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs
The crater's sides from the red hell below.

Birds ceased to sing, and all the barnyard fowls
Roosted; the cattle at the pasture-bars
Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern wings

* A sā'ga is an old heroic Scandinavian tale.

Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died ;
Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp
To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter
The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ
Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked
A loving guest at Bethany, but stern
As Justice and inexorable law.

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,
Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
“It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"
Some said ; and then, as if with one accord,
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
The intolerable hush. - This well


be The day of judgment, which the world awaits ; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord's command To occupy till he come. So, at the post Where he hath set me in his providence, I choose, for one, to meet him face to face, No faithless servant frightened from my task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, Let God do his work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles.” And they brought them in. Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, "An act to amend an act to regulate The shad and alewive fisheries.” Whereupon, Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, Straight to the question, with no figures of speech Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without The shrewd dry humor natural to the man :

His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,
Between the pauses of his argument,
To hear the thunder of the wrath of God
Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.
And there he stands in memory to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.



SIR EDWARD GEORGE EARLE BULWER-LYTTON (generally known by his original name of Bulwer), one of the most popular and distinguished writers of England, was born at Haydon Hall, in the county of Norfolk, in 1805, educated at the University of Cambridge, and died January 18, 1873. He was the author of a large number of novels, as well as of plays, poems, and miscellanies. He was a writer of various and versatile power, and his novels are remarkable for brilliant description, startling adventures, sharp delineation of character, and especially the later ones — a vein of philosophical reflection. The moral tone of his earlier works is not always to be commended, but in this respect, as well as in substantial literary merit, there is a marked improvement in those of later date.

The following passage is from “Richelieu,” a play founded upon certain incidents in the life of the great French statesman of that name.


Y liege, your anger can recall your trust,

Annul my office, spoil me of my lands,
Rifle my coffers; but my name, my deeds,
Are royal in a land beyond your scepter.
Pass sentence on me,

from kings,
Lo, I appeal to Time! Be just, my liege.
I found your kingdom rent with heresies,
And bristling with rebellion ;— lawless nobles
And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord;
Austria, her clutch on your dominion ; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind

will ;

if you

To arméd thunderbolts. The Arts lay dead;
Trade rotted in your marts; your armies mutinous,
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole,
Supremest Monarch of the mightiest realm,
From Ganges to the icebergs. Look without,
No foe not humbled! Look within, the Arts
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides,
The golden Italy ! while throughout the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides
Trade, the calm health of Nations! Sire, I know
That men have called me cruel ;
I am not;— I am just ! I found France rent asunder,
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ;
Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ;
Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ashes
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,
Soars, phenix-like, to Jove! What was my art ?
Genius, some say ; -some, Fortune; Witchcraft, some.
Not so;— my art was Justice.



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born in the village of Rothley, in the county of Leicester, England, October 25, 1800 ; and died December 28, 1859. He was edu. cated at Cambridge University, and was called to the bar in 1826. In 1830 he became a member of Parliament, and took an active part in the debates on the Reform Bill. In 1834 he was sent to India as a member of the Supreme Council. Returning home in 1838, he was again elected to Parliament in 1839, and was appointed Secretary of War. At the election of 1847 he was defeated, and remained out of Parliament till 1852, when he again became a member. He was created a peer of England, with the

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