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CATO

REASONING ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope-this fond desire-
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the Soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being—

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold! If there's a Power above us,
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

78 CATO ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue ; And that which he delights in must be happy.

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me :
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The Soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements,

The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds!

ADDISON.

THE TRIALS OF

GRACE HUNTLEY.

BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

"Virtue is not more exempt than vice from the ills of fate; but it contains within itself always an energy to resist them, and sometimes an anodyne to soothe."

THE DISOWNED.

"WE will call her Grace," said a pale, delicatelooking young woman to her husband, as she raised the white flannel hood, that he might gaze upon the features of their new-born babe. "Abel, I never expected to be the mother of a living child; but God has been merciful; so we will give to her the gentle name of Grace; and, dearest, let us pray that, in all the troubles and trials of life, not the name merely, but the spirit, may dwell with her!"

It was only a few weeks afterwards that the grave closed over the fair young mother; but the blessing wherewith she had blessed her child had been heard and registered in heaven.

*

"You are not angry with me, my own dear fathernot angry with your poor Grace—and you will forgive Joseph Huntley! Oh!" added the girl playfully, "if we youngsters could but get your wisdom, without your wrinkles, what wonderful creatures we should be!"

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My child, my child! age will bring wrinkles, as autumn brings withered leaves; yet wisdom doth not always come with years. But our hearts do not grow old, girl; so I forgive you!"

"And Joseph too, father?"

The schoolmaster (for such was his calling) shook his head. "Of all the youths it has been my fortune to instruct, I never met with so wilful a boy as Joseph Huntley."

"He is not a boy now, father; you forget he is out of his time."

"So much the worse. His master, worthy Matthew Greenshaw, tells me he spoils more mahogany than any apprentice that ever entered his house; and you know, Grace, the desk he made, as a present for me last Christmas, tumbled to pieces the second time I leant upon it."

"Dear father, you lean your elbows so heavily! But Joseph has made you such a pretty ruler of cherrytree wood!"

"I believe he is a kind-hearted fellow; but, dear Grace, a kind heart alone will not insure prosperity; there must be forethought and industry,

and discretion. Yet, truth to say, I fear your heart is too much set upon this same Joseph Huntley. Whatever he does, you view in one light, and I in another. I would not judge harshly, my dear child; yet do I wish it had pleased God your mother had lived; it is no easy thing for a man to bring up a daughter, and make her learned in woman's craft, and other matters meet for her to understand. A pains-taking schoolmaster, like myself, has but small opportunity of cultivating a knowledge of female sentiment; yet have I not been a bad father, for never did I harbour the thought of giving a second mother dominion over you; and, albeit you are not skilled in the arts of cross-stitch, back-stitch, or Quaker's hem, which our good neighbour Mrs. Craddock so exceedingly laments, yet is our house clean and well ordered-and few girls comprehend better the first four rules of arithmetic, or can write a fairer hand, than my own Grace." The simpleminded man looked upon his darling child for a few moments, while a feeling of pride irradiated his countenance; a change, however, soon passed over it, a change striking, yet not uncommon-a change from pride to piety; his eye moistened, and his voice faltered, as, laying his hand upon the beautiful head of his only one, he continued: "And when I am laid in my grave, Grace, you will remember that your poor old father taught you more than mere writing and

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