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Arch. O! you are the person of whom he spoke so hand somely. I retain you in my service, I regard you as an acquisition. Your education, it would seen, has not been neglected; you know enough of Greek and Latin for my purpose, and your handwriting suits me. I am obliged to my nephew for sending me so clever a young fellow. So good a copyist must be also a grammarian. Tell me, did you find nothing in the sermon you transcribed for me which shocked your taste? no little negli gence of style, or impropriety of diction?

Gil B. O, sir! I am not qualified to play the critic; and if I were, I am persuaded that your Grace's compositions would defy censure.

Arch. Ahem! well, I do flatter myself that not many flaws could be picked in them. But, my young friend, tell me what passages struck you most forcibly.

Gil B. If, where all was excellent, any passages more par ticularly moved me, they were those personifying hope and describing the good man's death.

The conver

Arch. You show an accurate taste and delicate appreciation. I see your judgment may be relied upon. Give yourself no inquietude, Gil Blas, in regard to your advancement in life. I will take care of that. I have an affection for you, and, to prove it, I will now make you my confidant. Yes, my young friend, I will make you the depositary of my most secret thoughts. Lis ten to what I have to say. I am fond of preaching, and my sermons are not without effect upon my hearers. sions of which I am the humble instrument ought to content me. But, - shall I confess my weakness?- my reputation as a finished orator is what gratifies me most. My productions are celebrated as at once vigorous and elegant. But I would, of all things, avoid the mistake of those authors who do not know when to stop - I would produce nothing beneath my reputation; I would retire seasonably, ere that is impaired. And so, my dear Gil Blas, one thing I exact of your zeal, which is, that when you shall find that my pen begins to flag and to give signs of old age in the owner, you shall not hesitate to apprise ine of the fact. Do not be afraid that I shall take it unkindly. I cannot trust my own judgment on this point; self-love may mislead me. A disin'terested understanding is what I require for my guidance. I make choice of yours, and mean to abide by your decision.

Gil B. Thank Heaven, sir, the period is likely to be far distant when any such hint shall be needed. Besides, a genius like yours will wear better than that of an inferior man; or, to speak more justly, your faculties are above the encroachments of

age. Instead of being weakened, they promise to be invigorated by time.

Arch. No flattery, my friend. I am well aware that I am liable to give way at any time, all at once. At my age, certain infirmities of the flesh are unavoidable, and they must needs affect the mental powers. I repeat it, Gil Blas, so soon as you shall perceive the slightest symptom of deterioration in my writings, give me fair warning. Do not shrink from being perfectly candid and sincere; for I shall receive such a monition as a token of your regard for me.

Gil B. In good faith, sir, I shall endeavor to merit your confidence.

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Arch. Nay, your interests are bound up with your obedience in this respect; for if, unfortunately for you, I should hear in the city a whisper of a falling-off in my discourses, an intimation that I ought to stop preaching, I should hold you responsible, and consider myself exempted from all care for your fortunes. Such will be the result of your false discretion.

Gil B. Indeed, sir, I shall be vigilant to observe your wishes, and to detect any blemish in your writings.

Arch. And now tell me, Gil Blas, what does the world say of my last discourse? Think you it gave general satisfaction? Gil B. Since you exact it of me in so pressing a manner to be frank

Arch. Frank? O, certainly, by all means; speak out, my young friend.

Gil B.

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Your Grace's sermons never fail to be admired;

Arch. But -Well? Do not be afraid to let me know all. Gil B. If I may venture the observation, it seemed to me that your last discourse did not have that effect upon your audience which your former efforts have had. Perhaps your Grace's recent illness

Arch. What, what! Has it encountered, then, some Aristarchus? E

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Gil B. No, sir, no. Such productions as yours are beyond criticism. Everybody was charmed with it; but since you have demanded it of me to be frank and sincere I take the liberty to remark that your last discourse did not seem to me altogether equal to your preceding. It lacked the strengthDo you not agree with me, sir?

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Arch. Mr. Gil Blas, that discourse, then, is not to your taste?

Gil B. I did not say that, sir. I found it excellent - only a little inferior to your others.

Arch. So! Now I understand. I seem to you to be on the wane eh? Out with it! You think it about time that I should retire?

Gil B. I should not have presumed, sir, to speak so freely, but for your express commands. I have simply rendered you obedience; and I humbly trust that you will not be offended at my hardihood.

Arch. Offended! O! not at all, Mr. Gil Blas. I utter no reproaches. I don't take it at all ill that you should speak your sentiments; it is your sentiment only that I find ill. I have been duped in supposing you to be a person of any intelligence that is all.

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Gil B. But, sir, if, in my zeal to serve you, I have erred in Arch. Say no more - say no more! You are yet too raw to discriminate. Know that I never composed a better sermon than that which has had the misfortune to lack your approbation. My faculties, thank Heaven, have lost nothing of their vigor. Hereafter I will make a better choice of an adviser. Go, tell my treasurer to count you out a hundred ducats, and may Heaven conduct you with that sum. Adieu, Mr. Gil Blas I wish you all manner of prosperity — with a little more taste.

DRAMATIZED FROM LE SAGE

CLXII. THE TRADE OF WAR.

Max. HE is possessed by a commanding spirit,
And his, too, is the station of command,

And well for us it is so!

Well for the whole, if there be found a man166
stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,
Where all may press with joy and confidence.
Now, such a man is Wallenstein.

The oracle within him, that which lives,

He must invoke and question—not dead books,
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.

Octavio. My son, of those old narrow ordinances

Let us not hold too lightly.

The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,

Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes

The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid,

Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches

My son, the road the human being travels,

fhat on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow
The river's course, the valley's playful windings,

Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,
Honoring the holy bounds of property;

And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

Questenburg. O, hear your father, noble youth! hear in Who is at once the hero and the man.

Oct. My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee. A war of fifteen years

Hath been thy education and thy school.

Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists
A higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose.
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
These are not they, my son, that generate
The Calm, the Blissful, the enduring Mighty!
Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect,
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
The whole scene moves and bustles momently

With arms and neighing steeds; and mirth and quarrel
The motley market fill; the roads, the streams,

Are crowded with new freights; trade stirs and hurries!
But on some morrow morn all suddenly

The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.
Dreary and solitary as a church-yard

The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,

And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

Max. O, let the emperor make peace, my father!
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
For the first violet of the leafless spring,

Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed!
Oct. What ails thee? What so moves thee, all at n
Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
Left in the distance, some delicious landscape!
My road conducted me through countries where
The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father--
My venerable father, life has charms

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Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been

But voyaging along its barren coasts,

Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,

That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
House on the wild sea with wild usages,

Nor know aught of the mainland, but the bays
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing
Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
Of fair and exquisite, -O! nothing, nothing
Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.

Oct. And so your journey has revealed this to you?
Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O, tell me,
What is the meed and purpose of the toil,

The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth,
Left me a heart unsouled and solitary,

A spirit uninformed, unornamented!

For the camp's sti", and crowd, and ceaseless lărum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,
Word of command, and exercise of arms.
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!

Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not-
This cannot be the sole felicity,

These cannot be man's best and only pleasures!

Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. Max. O! day thrice lovely! when at length the soldier Returns home into life; when he becomes

A fellow-man among his fellow-men.

The colors are unfurled, the cavalcade

Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and, hark!

Now the soft peace-march beats, Home, brothers, home
The caps and helmets are all garlanded

With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields
The city gates fly open of themselves;

They need no longer the petard to tear them.

The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,

Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.

O, happy man, 0, fortunate! for whom

The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing!

SCHILLER, TRANSLATED BY COLERIDGE

CLXIII.

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THE VANITY AND GLORY OF LITERATURE.

1. PARADOXICALEI as it may seem, the chief cause of the virtual oblivion of books is no longer their extinction, but the fond care with which they are preserved, and their immensely rapid multiplication. The press is more than a match for the moth and the worm, or the mou.dering hand of time; yet the great destroyer equally fulfils his commission, by burying books under the pyramid which is formed by their accumulation. It is a striking example of the im'potence with which man struggles against the destiny which awaits him and his works, that the very means he takes to insure immortality destroy it; that the very activity of the press, of the instrument by which he seemed to have taken

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