would pursue the same course-bear up under the same pressure-abide by the same principles-and remain by his side, an exile from power, distinction, and emolument! If I have missed the opportunity, of obtaining all the 30 support, I might, perhaps, have had, on the present occasion, from a very scrupulous delicacy, which I think became, and was incumbent upon me-I cannot repent it. In so doing, I acted on the feelings upon which I am sensible all those would have acted who loved Mr. Fox 35 as I did. I felt within myself, that while the slightest aspirations might still quiver on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, wisdom, and benevolence that while one drop of life's blood might still warm that heart, which throbbed only for the good of 40 mankind—I should not, I could not have acted otherwise. Gentlemen; the hour is not far distant, when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your revered patriot are passing through your streets, to that 45 sepulchral home where your kings-your heroes-your sages-and your poets, will be honored by an association with his mortal remains. At that hour when the sad solemnity shall take place, in a private way, as more suited to the simple dignity of his character, than the splendid 50 gaudiness of public pageantry; when you, all of you, shall be self marshalled in reverential sorrow-mute, and reflecting on your mighty loss-at that moment shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of such a scene? Is it fitting that any man 55 should overlook the crisis, and risk the monstrous and disgusting contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man? EXERCISE 99. Death of Sheridan.—BYRON. The flash of wit-the bright intelligence, But small that portion of the wondrous whole, In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, The praised-the proud-who made his praise their pride. 15 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed, The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit, 25 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Here in their first abode, you still may meet 30 Bright with the hues of his Promethan heat; A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield, 40 He was your brother-bear his ashes hence! *Pitt, Fox, and Burke. 212 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 10 The moon hath waxed and waned, and all is past. She turned in wrath, and limb from limb had rent 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. EXERCISE 101. 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 inquiries, the questions answered by a look, and the ques10 tions so rapid as not to admit of that brief response, paș sed like the shadow of a cloud upon a Highland glenlike 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 axe; 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 gratification 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 |