A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. As stiff twin compasses are two; Yet when the other far doth roam And grows erect as that comes home. Like th' other foot obliquely run. And makes me end where I begun."-(DONNE.) In all these examples it is apparent that whatever is improper or vicious is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pursuit of something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight by their desire of exciting admiration. Essay on Cowley. ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, who in these periods of approaching ignorance still felt a passion for science, from time to time added to its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number: he repaired those schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning which avaricious governors had monopolized to themselves. In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together. The one the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other the most eloquent speaker in the Academic Grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaintance, and a similitude of disposition made them perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly equal, their studies the same, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. In this mutual harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world, and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia showed no dislike to his addresses. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. An exultation in his own happiness, or his being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce his mistress to his fellow student, which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love.-But this was an interview fatal to the peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her but he was smit with an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but in vain, to suppress desires at once apartment in inexpressible agony; and the so imprudent and unjust. He retired to his emotions of his mind in a short time became the physicians judged incurable. so strong, that they brought on a fever, which During this illness Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon discovered the cause of their patient's disorder; and Alcander, being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover. It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at this time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance; and this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents of which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or pretor. Meanwhile Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given her up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his eloquence in his own defence, was able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, himself stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder. BARREN FAITH. A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master; and his skill in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply a precarious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but death or flight was left him, and almost certain death was the consequence of his attempting to flee. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered: he embraced it with ardour, and travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The day of Alcander's arrival Septimius sat in the forum administering justice; and hither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known and publicly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but so much was he altered by a long succession of hardships, that he passed entirely without notice; and in the evening, when he was going up to the pretor's chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; night coming on, he now found himself under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness, and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and virtue found on this flinty couch more ease than down can supply to the guilty. It was midnight when two robbers came to make this cave their retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, and this naturally induced a further inquiry. The alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his 163 appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty, and was determined to make no defence. Thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. The proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication; the judge, therefore, was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illumined by a ray from heaven, he discovered, through all his misery, the features, though dim with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It is impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this strange occasion; happy in once more seeing the person he most loved on earth, distressed at finding him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and, falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into an agony of distress. The attention of the multitude was soon, however, divided by another object. The robber who had been really guilty was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and the honours of his friend Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his tomb, that "no circumstances are so desperate which Providence may not relieve." BARREN FAITH. The Bee, 1759. O, friend, we nurse in vain a scholar-faith, Though one that with its husky logic feeds It carries with it no awakening force, WILLIAM SAWYER. HOME. [John Crawford Wilson, born at Mallow, Cork, Ireland. Poet, dramatist, and miscellaneous writer. His chief poetical works are: The Village Pearl; Blsie; Flights to Fairyland; and Lost and Found, a pastoral. Jonathan Oldaker, or Leaves from the Diary of a Commercial Traveller, is a series of sketches and tales which has passed through several editions. His most important dramas are Gitanilla and a stage version of his poem Lost and Found. He has on several occasions appeared with much success as a public reader of selections from his own works and those of other authors. "Mr. Wilson's style is animated and rapid: we have seldom read verses which breathe more earnestly the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love. To the moral qualities which distinguish poets, Mr. Wilson may lay an undoubted claim. Genuine feeling is so infectious, that such a writer can hardly tell a plain and pathetic story to unsympathizing hearers.”— Athenæum.] "I must go Home to-day!" A golden beam Of dazzling sunlight streamed from heaven to earth; Through clouds that seemed like polished silver domes Of temples angel-built, or fairy towers Spotless and white, with sparkling minarets, Drifting like icebergs in a calm blue sea, The fiery shaft ran down-down to a bed On which lay prone a little wasted form Of faded earth, from which the struggling soul It was a girl A little sickly girl lay on that bed— To whom God's sunbeam came. She saw the beam- "I must go Home- "My darling is at Home!" the mother sobbed, As with a moistened feather she essayed To damp the parched lips, round which the dews And such a Home, sweet mother!-there-'tis there!" She smiled within the sunbeam, and her hand, Like it, transparent seemed, as it was raised Pointing to Heaven. A Heaven not far awayBut near; so near-that e'en her dying smile Seemed not to herald night, but the bright dawn Of an unclouded and eternal day. The mother felt, as kneeling by that bed She tended every want, and on her breast Pillowed the sufferer's head-that the frail shell, The young worn mould encircled by her arms, Was crumbling fast to dust-and that the wings Of a freed angel would be heavenward spread When earth's last gyves fell off, and the last sigh Followed the sunbeam, sent to light her Home. They called her "Lily"-Lilian was her nameBut from her birth she seemed so waxen whiteSo fairy slight - so gentle and so pure, That to her father's mind she ever brought The image of that pale and fragile flower: And so he called her "Lily." "Twas a term In which endearment, tenderness, and hope Were all wreathed up; the hope too often crossed By jealous fears, when some untoward breath Too roughly bent to earth the sickly flower, Leaving it drooping on its yielding stem. And there she lay at last,-almost in HeavenOf Time and of Eternity a part A dying, living link, uniting those Who live to die-and die to ever live! Her eyes were closed. Her mother thought abe alept The sleep that wakes no more: but 'twas not so. A step was on the stair-the fading eyes I want to feel his kiss upon my lips; Another sob, And then a choking whisper from without. "May I come in? If she is gone, say 'No.' If not, say 'Yes.' I'll tread so very light I shall not wake her, wife. May I come in?" A faltering voice said, "Come!" 'Twas Lily's voine; So he went in-a stalwart lusty man A giant, with a tiny infant's heart, A CAT ADOPTING YOUNG SQUIRRELS. 165 Weeping big tears that would not be controlled. Oh how he loved that child-how she loved him! He sat beside her bed, and in his hands "Til I die too." He thought not of his wife- That, if removed, they must become once more Lily spoke Or whispered rather-but a thunder peal Would less affect him than her sinking tones: "Raise me, dear father; take me to your breastYour broad kind breast, so full of love for me"Twill rest me on my road-'tis half-way Home! And then he rose, and round her wasted form His brawny arms-before whose mighty strength The massive anvil quivered, as his hands Swung high the ponderous sledge-or in whose gripe The fiery steed stood conquered and subdued Closed, as the breath of heaven, or God's own love, So lightly, softly, gently, hemmed they in The little dying child. Then there he sat, Her face upon his breast, and on his knee Her tearless mother's head; for all her tears Were inly wept, dropping like molten lead Upon her breaking heart. Far in the west Long waves of crimson clouds stretched o'er the hills; Her soul, enfranchised, bounded from its thrall; THE ROOKS RETURNING TO THEIR NESTS. [The REV. GILBERT WHITE (1720-1793) published a series of letters addressed by him to Pennant and Daines Barrington, descriptive of the natural objects and appearances of the parish of Selborne in Hampshire. White was rector of this parish, and had spent in it the greater part of his life, engaged in literary occupations and the study of nature. His minute and interesting facts, the entire devotion of the amiable author to his subject, and the easy elegance and simplicity of his style, render "White's History," a universal favourite-something like Izaak Walton's book on Angling, which all admire, and hundreds have endeavoured to copy. The retired naturalist was too full of facts and observations to have room for sentimental writing, yet in sentences like the following-however humble be the theme-we may trace no common power of picturesque painting :] The evening proceedings and manœuvres of the rooks are curious and amusing in the autumn. Just before dusk, they return in long strings from the foraging of the day, and rendezvous by thousands over Selborne down, where they wheel round in the air, and sport and dive in a playful manner, all the while exerting their voices, and making a loud cawing, which, being blended and softened by the distance that we at the village are below them, becomes a confused noise or chiding; or rather a pleasing murmur, very engaging to the imagination, and not unlike the cry of a pack of hounds in hollow echoing woods, or the rushing of the winds in tall trees, or the tumbling of the tide upon a pebbly shore. When this ceremony is over, with the last gleam of day they retire for the night to the deep beechen woods of Tisted and Ropley. We remember a little girl, who, as she was going to bed, used to remark on such an occurrence, in the true spirit of physico-theology, that the rooks were saying their prayers; and yet this child was much too young to be aware that the Scriptures have said of the Deity, that "he feedeth the ravens who call upon him." A CAT ADOPTING YOUNG SQUIR RELS. A boy has taken three little young squir rels in their nest, or drey, as it is called in these parts. These small creatures he put under the care of a cat who had lately lost GILBERT WHITE. her kittens, and finds that she nurses and danger, betake themselves to their own ele suckles them with the same assiduity and ment, the water, where amidst large lakes affection as if they were her own offspring. and pools, like ships riding at anchor, they This circumstance corroborates my suspi- float the whole night long in peace and secion that the mention of exposed and de-curity. serted children being nurtured by female beasts of prey who had lost their young, may not be so improbable an incident as many have supposed; and therefore may be a justification of those authors who have gravely mentioned what some have deemed to be a wild and improbable story. SIGHS FOR REST. [EWALD CHRISTIAN VON KLEIST. Born in 1715, at So many people went to see the little squirrels suckled by a cat, that the foster mother became jealous of her charge, and in pain for their safety, and therefore hid them over the ceiling, where one died. This circumstance shows her affection for these foundlings, and that she supposes the O silver brook, my leisure's early soother, squirrels to be her own young. Thus hens, when they have hatched ducklings, are equally attached to them as if they were their own chickens. Zeblin, Pomerina; died in 1759, from a wound received at the battle of Kunersdorf. He has been called "the German Thomson," from having imitated "The Seasons" in his poem, " Spring."] GILBERT WHITE. NIGHT HABITS OF POULTRY. When wilt thou murmur lullabies again? O ye fair groves and odorous violet valleys, Thou, who behind the linden's fragrant boughs, Would'st lurk to hear me blow the mellow flute, Speak, Echo, shall I never know repose? Must every muse I wooed henceforth be mute? How oft, while, pleased, in the thick shade I lay, Far now are fled the pleasures once so dear, Thy welcome words no longer meet my calls, No sympathetic tone assails the ear, Death from a thousand mouths of iron bawls: The earnest and early propensity of the gallina to roost on high is very observable and discovers a strong dread impressed on their spirits respecting vermin that may annoy them on the ground during the hours of darkness. Hence, poultry, if left to themselves and not housed, will perch the winter through on yew-trees and fir-trees; and turkeys and guinea-fowls, heavy as they are, get up into apple-trees. Pheasants also, in the woods, sleep on trees to avoid foxes; while pea-fowls climb to the tops of the highest trees round their owner's house for security, let the weather be ever so cold or blowing. Partridges, it is true, roost on the ground, not having the faculty of perch-As when the chilly winds of March arise, ing; but then the same fear prevails in their minds; for through apprehensions from pole-cats and stoats, they never trust themselves to coverts, but nestle together in the midst of large fields, far removed from hedges and coppices, which they love to haunt in the day, and where at that season they can skulk more secure from the ravages of rapacious birds. There brook and meadow harmless joys bestow, And whirl the howling dust in eddies swift, The sunbeams wither in the dimmer skies, O'er the young ears the sand and pebbles drift: The vineyard bleeds, and trampled is the corn, Orchards but heat the kettles of the camp. Her youthful friend the bride beholds, forlorn, As to ducks and geese, their awkward Crushed like a flower beneath the horse's tramp: splay-web feet forbid them to settle on trees; | Vain is her shower of tears that bathes the dead, they therefore, in the hours of darkness and As dews on roses plucked and soon to fade. |