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HARRIET MARTINEAU was born in Norwich, England, June 12th, 1802. Her early education was liberal and thorough, though her father's circumstances were far from being affluent. Amicted with partial deafness from early youth, and deprived completely of the sense of smell, she found especial delight in the practice of writing. This gave her a facility which proved of the utmost service, when afterwards pecuniary need made that a busine88, which had once been only a recreation. Miss Martineau had not written long for the public, before she showed that she had talents of no ordinary stamp. She has written on almost every subject, from a book of devotion for tie young to a philosophical treatise for the most mature. In 1834 she sailed for America, and made an extensive tour through the United States. The results of her sojourn with us, she afterwards gave in two separate works, which, on the whole, are allowed to have been written in a fair and candid spirit.


HARRIET MARTINEAU. 1. There needs no other proof that happiness is the most wholesome moral atmosphere, and that in which the immortality of man is destined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps its arms about her neck. God is thanked (perhaps, unconsciously,) for the brightness of his earth, on summer evenings, when a brother and sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart-steres to each other, and feel their course of thought brightening as it runs.

2. When the agea parent hears of the honors his children have won, or looks round upon their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to him who, in them, prescribed the purpose of his Kife, and bestowed its grace. But religious as is the mood of every good affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel; there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity

nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism-nothing in Heaven too glorious for its sympathy.

3. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to conquer.

There is no other such crisis in human lifi The philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph as he may be regarded amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved—be it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage reposing in her father's confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fireside.

4. The warrior about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by

joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection.

5. And these are many—they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation, the warrior is the grace of an age, the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover, where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been—wherever children are at play together, there he will soon be—wherever there are roofs under which men dwell, wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse.


James Gates PERCIVAL was born in Berlin, Connecticut, September 15th, 1795, and died in Wisconsin, May 2d, 1857. He was but fourteen years of age, when he wrote a burlesque poem on the times, said to have considerable merit. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, and thereafter continued to write and publish much, both in prose and poetry, till the time (1843) of his last publication, entitled “ The Dream of a Day and Other Poems." He was & man of large and general culture, especially rich in classical attainment; and, as a poet, without a superior, perhaps, in the gift of fancy, coupled with a certair strange power to arrest the feelings and hold the reader under a sort of poetic enchantment.



O, had I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly
Where the roses are blossoming all the year long,
Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye,
And the bills of the warblers are ever in song!
0, then I would fly from the cold and the snow,
And hie to the land of the orange and vine,
And carol the winter away in the glow,
That rolls o'er the ever-green bowers of the line !

Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep,
Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there, alone,
I would take me a dear little martin to keep
A sociable flight to the tropical zone :
How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea
We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away.
And forever our song and our twitter should be,
To the land where the year is eternally gay!


We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers,
And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm,
And live, like the bee, on its fruits and its flowers,
That always are flowing with honey and halm;

And there we would stay, till the winter is o'er,
And April is checkered with sunshine and rain,-
0, then we would Ait from that far-distant shore
Over island and wave to our country again.


How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled
Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime;
And break on the beaches, in surges of gold,
When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime:
We would touch for awhile, as we traversed the ocean,
At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore,
And winnow our wings with an easier motion
Through the breath of the cedar that blows from the shore.

And, when we had rested our wings, and had fed
On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves,
By the spirit of home and of infancy led,
We would hurry again to the land of our loves;
And, when from the breast of the ocean would spring,
Far off in the distance, that dear native shore,
In the joy of our hearts, we would cheerily sing, -
No land is so lovely when winter is o'er !


JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, a British dramatist, was born in Cork, Ireland, in the year 1784. He discovered a decided taste for dramatic pursuits at an very early age, and, in its development, had the aid of some of the best critics of the day. He was not only a writer, but also an actor, of plays. Among his various dramatic pieces is the play of William Tell, from which the following dialogue between Tell and Gesler, the tyrant, has been extracted. In later life, Mr. Knowles became a minister of the Baptist denom. inajion. He died, November 29th, 1862, at Torquay, England.

WILLIAM TELL was a peasant, born near Altorf, in Switzerland, and celebrated for his resistance to the tyranny of Gesler, an Austrian governor. This Gesler had carried his insolent sway so far as to require the Swiss to uncover their heads before his hat, elevated on a pole, as a sign of Anstrian sovereignty, of which he was the representative. Tell refusing to do this, was condemned by the brutal governor to shoot an apple from the head of his own son. Being a skillful rcher, he did this without injury to the boy ; but had concealed about his person a second arrow with which he purposed to shoot the tyrant himself, and he been so unfortunate as to miss his aim in shooting at the apple. The short dialogue below shows well the spirit that animated this famous defender of liberty.


Gesler. Why speak’st thou not?
Tell. For wonder.
Ges. Wonder?

Tell. Yes.
That thou shouldst seem a man.
Ges. What should I seem ?
Tell. A monster!
Ges. Ha! Beware—Think on thy chains.

Tell. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down,
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains !
Show me the link of them, which, could it speak,
Would give its evidence against my word.
Think on my chains! Think on my chains !
How came they on me ?

Ges. Darest thou question me?
Tell. Darest thou answer?
Ges. Do I hear?
Tell. Thou dost.
Ges. Beware my vengeance.
Tell. Can it more than kill ?
Ges. Enough-it can do that.

Tell. No—not enough:
It can not take away the grace of lifo,
Its comeliness of look that virtue gives,
Its port erect with consciousness of truth
Its rich attire of honorable deeds,
Its fair report, that's rife on good men's tongues :

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