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of prey from these precincts. The fastnesses of Norwalk, however, could not but afford refuge to some of them. Of late I had met them so rarely, that my fears were seldom alive, and I trod, without caution, the ruggedest and most solitary haunts. Still, however, I had seldom been unfurnished in my rambles with the means of defense.

6. The unfrequency with which I had lately encountered this foe, and the encumbrance of provision, made me neglect, on this occasion, to bring with me my usual arms. The beast that was now before me, when stimulated by hunger, was accustomed to assail whatever could provide him with a banquet of blood. He would set upon man and the deer with equal and irresistible ferocity. His sagacity was equal to his strength, and he seemed able to discover when his antagonist was armed.

7. My past experience enabled me to estimate the full extent of my danger. He sat on the brow of the steep, eyeing the bridge, and apparently deliberating whether he should cross it. It was probable that he had scented my footsteps thus far, and should he pass over, his vigilance could scarcely fail of detecting my asy' y'lum.

8. Should he retain his present station, my danger was scarcely lessened. To pass over in the face of a famished tiger was only to rush upon my fate. The falling of the trunk, which had lately been so anxiously deprecated, was now, with no less solicitude, desired. Every new gust I hoped would tear asunder its remaining bands, and, by cutting off all communication between the opposite steeps, place me in security. My hopes, however, were destined to be frustrated. The fibers of the prostrate tree were obstinately tenacious of their hold, and presently the animal scrambled down the rock and proceeded to cross it.

9. Of all kinds of death, that which now menaced me was the most abhorred. To die by disease, or by the hand of a fellowcreature, was lenient in comparison with being rent to pieces by the fangs of this savage. To perish in this obscure retreat, by means so impervious to the anxious curiosity of my friends, to lose my portion of existence by so untoward and ignoble a destiny, was insupportable. I bitterly deplored my rashness in coming hither unprovided for an encounter like this.

10. The evil of my present circumstances consisted chiefly in uspense. My death was unavoidable, but my imagination had leisure to torment itself by anticipations. One foot of the savage was slowly and cautiously moved after the other. He struck his claws so deeply into the bark that they were with difficulty withdrawn. At length he leaped upon the ground. We were now separated by an interval of scarcely eight feet. To leave the spot where I crouched was impossible. Behind and beside me the cliff rose perpendicularly, and before me was this grim and terrific visage. I shrunk still closer to the ground and closed my eyes.

11. From this pause of horror I was aroused by the noise occasioned by a second spring of the animal. He leaped into the pit in which I had so deeply regretted that I had not taken refuge, and disappeared. My rescue was so sudden, and so much beyond my belief or my hope, that I doubted for a moment whether my senses did not deceive me. This opportunity of escape was not to be neglected. I left my place and scrambled over the trunk with a precipitation which had liked to have proved fatal. The tree groaned and shook under me, the wind blew with unexampled violence, and I had scarcely reached the opposite steep when the roots were severed from the rock, and the whole fell thundering to the bottom of the chasm.

12. My trepidations were not speedily quieted. I looked back with wonder on my hair-breadth escape, and on that singular concurrence of events which had placed me in so short a period in absolute security. Had the trunk fallen a moment earlier, I should have been imprisoned on the hill or thrown headlong. Had its fall been delayed another moment, I should have been pursued; for the beast now issued from his den, and testified his surprise and disappointment by tokens, the sight of which made my blood run cold.

He

13. He saw me, and hastened to the verge of the chasm. squatted on his hind-legs, and assumed the attitude of one preparing to leap. My consternation was excited afresh by these appearances. It seemed, at first, as if the rift was too wide for any power of muscles to carry him in safety over; but I knew the unparalleled agility of this animal, and that his experience

had made him a better judge of the practicability of this exploit than I was.

14. Still, there was hope that he would relinquish this design as desperate. This hope was quickly at an end. He sprung, and his fore-legs touched the verge of the rock on which I stood. In spite of ve'hement exertions, however, the surface was too smooth and too hard to allow him to make good his hold. He fell, and a piercing cry, uttered below, showed that nothing had obstructed his descent to the bottom.

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C. B. BROWN.

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, the first American who chose literature as a profession, was born in Philadelphia on the 17th of January, 1771, and died the 22d of February, 1810. He was a gentle, unobtrusive enthusiast, who, though he resided principally in cities, passed a large portion of his life as a recluse. He lived in an ideal, and had little sympathy with the actual world. He had more genius than talent, and more imagination than fancy. His works, which were rapidly written, are incomplete, and deficient in method. Though he disregarded rules, and cared little for criticism, his style was clear and nervous, with little ornament, free of affectations, and indicated a singular sincerity and depth of feeling. "Wieland, or the Transformed," the first of a series of brilliant novels by which Brown gained his enduring reputation, was published in 1798. It is in all respects a remarkable book. Its plot, characters, and style are original and peculiar. The novel from which the above extract was taken is entitled, 64 Edgar Huntley, the Memoirs of a Somnambulist." The scene is located near the forks of the Delaware, in Pennsylvania. Clithero, the sleep-walker, has be come insane, and has fled into one of the wild mountain fastnesses of Norwalk Edgar Huntley, when endeavoring to discover his retreat, meets with the adventure described above. This description is written with a freedom, minute ness, and truthfulness to nature, that render it fearfully interesting and effective

40. NATURE'S TEACHINGS.

1. THE Seasons came and went, and went and came

THE

To teach men gratitude; and as they pass'd,

Gave warning of the lapse of time, that else

Had stolen unheeded by. The gentle flowers
Retired, and, stooping o'er the wilderness,
Talk'd of humility, and peace, and love.
The dews came down unseen at evening-tide,
And silently their bounties shed, to teach
Mankind unostenta'tious charity.

2. With arm in arm the forest rose on high,
And lesson gave of brotherly regard.

And, on the rugged mountain-brow exposed,
Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak

Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and still

To courage in distress exhorted loud.

The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the breeze
Attuned the heart to melody and love.

3. Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept
Essential love; and, from her glōrious bow,
Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace.
With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God
Of sweetest accent made, she whisper'd still,
She whisper'd to Revenge-Forgive, forgive!
The sun, rejoicing round the earth, announced
Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God.
The moon awoke, and from her maiden face
Shedding her cloudy locks, look'd meekly förth,
And with her virgin stars walk'd in the heavens,
Walk'd nightly there, conversing, as she walk'd,
Of purity, and holiness, and God.

4. In dreams and visions, sleep instructed much.
Day utter'd speech to day, and night to night
Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue; the grave,
The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each

A tongue, that ever said-Man! think of God!

Think of thyself! think of eternity!

Fear God, the thunders said; Fear God, the waves.
Fear God, the lightning of the storm replied.

Fear God, deep loudly answer'd back to deep.

POLLOK.

ROBERT POLLOK was born in 1799, in Renfrewshire, Scotland, where his father was a small farmer. After receiving the usual elementary education, he enter ed, at the age of nineteen, on a five years' course of study in the University of Glasgow. His ambitious and energetic poem, "Course of Time," appeared in the spring of 1827, and speedily obtained a popularity which it is not likely soon to lose. Its deeply religious character recommended it to serious persons; and it was admired by critics for the many flashes of original genius which light up the crude and unwieldy design, and atone for the narrow range of thought and knowledge, as well as for the stiff pomposity that pervades the diction. A few of its passages are strikingly and most poetically imaginative, and some are beautifully touching. Immediately after the publication of his poem, he was admitted as a preacher in the United Secession Church. He died of consumption in September of the same year, before the age of thirty.

41. WORK.

THERE is a perennial' nobleness, and even sacredness, in work.' Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works; in idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so Mammonish,' mean, is in communication with Nature: the rel desire to get work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's appointments and regulations which are truth.

2. Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; he has found it, and will follow it! How, as a free flowing channel, dug and torn by noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence, like an ever-deepening river there, it runs and flows!-draining off the sour festering water gradually from the root of the remotest grass blade; making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green fruitful meadow with its clear flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, let the stream and its value be great or small!

3. Labor is life; from the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force, the sacred celestial life-essence, breathed into him by Almighty God; from his inmost heart awakens him to all nobleness, to all knowledge, "self-knowledge," and much else, so soon as work fitly begins. Knowledge! the knowledge that will hold good in working, cleave thou to that; for Nature herself accredits that, says Yea to that. Properly, thou hast no other knowledge but what thou hast got by working: the rest is yet all a hypothesis of knowledge; a thing to be argued of in schools, a thing floating in the clouds in endless logic vor'ticēs,' till we try it and fix it. "Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by action alone."

Per en' ni al, literally, through or beyond a year; hence, enduring; lasting perpetually.—2 Work (werk).—3 Mâm' mon ish, relating to Mammon, the Syrian god of riches. The word here implies mercenary, or procured by means of money.-Truth (trôth).- Root. Hy poth' e sis, a proposition or principle assumed for the purpose of argument; a supposition. Logic vor' ti cès, intricate logical arguments. Vortices (vår ti sez), whirlpools.

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