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Long shall we seek his likeness—long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 50 And broke the die—in moulding SHERIDAN!

EXERCISE 100. The last family of Eastern Greenland.-MONTGOMERY In the cold sunshine of yon narrow dell, Affection lingers; there two lovers dwell, Greenland's whole family; nor long forlorn,

There comes a visitant; a babe is born.
5 O'er his meek helplessness the parents smiled;

'Twas hope;—for hope is every mother's child.
Then seemed they, in that world of solitude,
The Eve and Adam of a race renewed.

Brief happiness! too perilous to last; 10 The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past.

Behold the end!-one morn athwart the wall,
They marked the shadow of a reindeer fall,
Bounding in tameless freedom o'er the snow;

The father tracked him, and with fatal bow
15 Smote down the victim; but, before his eyes,

A rabid she-bear pounced upon the prize;
A shaft into the spoiler's flank he sent,
She turned in wrath, and limb from limb had rent

The hunter; but his dagger's plunging steel, 20 With riven bosom, made the monster reel;

Unvanquished, both to closer combat flew,
Assailants each, till each the other slew;
Mingling their blood from mutual wounds, they lay

Stretched on the carcass of their antlered prey. 25 Meanwhile his partner waits, her heart at rest,

No burden but her infant on her breast;
With him she slumbers, or with him she plays,
And tells him all her dreams of future days,

Asks him a thousand questions, feigns replies, 30 And reads whate'er she wishes in his eyes.

Red evening comes; no husband's shadow falls, Where fell the reindeer's, o'er the latticed walls; 'Tis night! no footstep sounds towards her door;

The day returns,--but he returns no more. 35 In frenzy forth she sallies, and with cries,

To which no voice except her own replies,
In frightful echoes, starting all around,
Where human voice again shall never sound,

She seeks him, finds him not; some angel guide 40 In mercy turns her from the corpse aside;

Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near,
Who waits to waft her to a happier sphere,
But leads her first, at evening to their cot,

Where lies the little one, all day forgot; 45 Imparadised in sleep, she finds him there,

Kisses his cheek, and breathes a mother's prayer
Three days she languishes, nor can she shed
One tear between the living and the dead;

When her lost spouse comes o'er the widow's thought, 50 The pangs of memory are to madness wrought

But, when her suckling's eager lips are felt,
Her heart would fain—but Oh! it cannot melt;
At length it breaks, while on her lap he lies,

With baby wonder gazing in her eyes.
55 Poor orphan! mine is not a hand to trace

Thy little story, last of all thy race!
Not long thy sufferings; cold and colder grown,
The arms that clasp thee, chill thy limbs to stone.

—'Tis done:—from Greenland's coast the latest sigh 60 Bore infant innocence beyond the sky.


The City and the Country.-M DONNOUGH. The arrival of the two mountaineers was not long in being known to the whole household in May Fair. Little Mary had hoisted the tartan in less time than the

ordinary tribe of lady's maids could easily comprehend, 5 and having hoisted that, she descended the stairs with

more rapidity than is customary with even that lightfooted tribe. The shakings by the hand, the “good graciouses! and are you there?" the uninterrupted in

quiries, the questions answered by a look, and the ques10 tions so rapid as not to admit of that brief response, pas

sed like the shadow of a cloud upon a Highland glen like the ruffling of the wind upon a Highland lake. The castle, the loch, the river, the cliff-every field, every

hill, every spot, and almost every bush, had its note of 15 recollection, and its tribute of praise.

There is something exquisite in this — something which the inhabitants of thronged cities, cannot appreciate. But in the patriarchal land of the north, there is

or there was, ere avarice laid it waste, or the love of 20 money made it a desolation—a love of every thing that

was, as well as of every thing that is. The same ancient stone which sheltered the sire, shelters the son; against the tree which his father planted, no man will

lift up an ax); and the resting-place of the departed is 25 sacred as long as life warms a heart, which was present

when they were laid in the dust. In a great city, man, dependent on his own exertions, following the bent of his own passions or appetites, and reckless of every grat

ification but those of himself, is disjointed from man. 30 The tenants of the same roof, know not the names of

each other, and to be parted by one paltry brick, makes a separation as complete, as though they dwelt at the antipodes. Not only is man disjointed from man, but age

is disjointed from age. The people who inhabit a street 35 or a square, now know nothing and care nothing about

those who inhabited it immediately before; and their brief memorial will be as quickly blotted out by the persons whom chance may afterwards place in the same

situation, Thus, while the great city brings the bodies 40 of men together, it scatters their minds, breaks all the

ties and links of sympathetic society, and piles up its tens and hundreds of thousands, (to all intents and purposes of deep feeling and delightful intercourse,) like

the cold, hard, unadhering and unconnected particles of 45 a mountain of sand, which the wind of whim, or chance,

or commerce, may whisk about just as the sand particles by the Red Sea are whisked about on the wings of the deadly saniel. In the retirement of the country,

and especially in that country from which our humble 50 visiters have come, and to which our lovely heroine is

looking, it is not so. There man is united to man, and age is linked with age, in the closest ties of friendship, the most delightful bonds of sympathy, the most touching

reminiscences of sorrow, and the fondest anticipations 55 of hope.

If a man would eat, drink, die, and be forgotten, let his dwelling place be in the city: if he would live, love, and be remembered, let him speed him to the glens of the mountains.


Summary Punishment.-Walter Scott. It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of MacGregor commanded that the hostage exchanged for her husband's safety should be brought

into her presence. I believe her sons had kept this 5 unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for fear of the conse

quences; but if it was so, their humane precaution only postponed his fate. They dragged forward at her summons a wretch already half dead with terror, in whose

agonized features I recognised, to my horror and as10 tonishment, my old acquaintance Morris.

He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an effort to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been pollution, so that all he could do in

token of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss 15 the hem of her plaid. I never heard entreaties for life

poured forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent;

and, with cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in 20 agony, eyes that seemed to be taking their last look of

all mortal objects, he prayed but for life — for life he would give all he had in the world;—it was but life he asked-life, if it were to be prolonged under tortures and

privations :-he asked only breath, though it should be 25 drawn in the depths of the lowest caverns of their hills.

It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt, with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched petitioner for the poor boon of ex

istence. 30 She gave a brief command in Gaelic to her attendants,

two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries,

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that fear ever uttered—I may well term them dreadful, 35 for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards.

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, Í did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have

been expected, my interference was sternly disregard40 ed. The victim was held fast by some, while others,

binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again, eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half-naked, and thus manacled, they

hurried him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, 45 drowning his last death-shriek with a loud halloo of vin

dictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark blue waters of the lake, and the High

landers, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an in50 stant, to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load

to which he was attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; the waters

which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, 55 and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so

strongly, was forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence.


On the receipt of his Mother's Picture.—Cowper.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, the jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,
5 (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)--
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight 10 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.

But, no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thre to constrain

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