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opens; the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters; it is a friend, who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distinctly taught by former philosophers; he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years; he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innovations; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth, as his dying bequest, to the world. He bids the friend who has brought it place himself between the window and his bedside, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold it once before his eyes grow dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires. But no, he is not wholly gone! A smile lights up his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye; his lips move; and the friend who leans over him can hear him faintly murmur the beautiful sentiments, which the Christian lyrist of a later age has so finely expressed in verse:

"Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble light;
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night;
And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brightest flames arrayed,

My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid,
Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode.

The pavement of those heavenly courts, where I shall reign with God."

So died the great Columbus of the heavens.

3. WILLIAM COBBETT'S RETURN. B. 1762; d. 1835.

"When I returned to England," says William Cobbett, "after an absence of sixteen years in America, the trees, the hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small! It made me laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called rivers. The Thames was but ( a creek.' But when, about a month after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully small! I had to cross in my post chaise the long, dreary heath of Bagshot; then, at the end of it, to mount a hill called Hungry Hill; and from that hill I knew that I should look down into the beautiful and fertile vale of Farnham. My heart fluttered with impatience, mixed with a sort of fear, to see all the scenes of my childhood; for I had learned, before, the death of my father and mother. There is a hill not far from the town, called Crocksbury Hill, which rises up out of a flat in the form of a cone, and is planted with Scotch fir trees. Here I used to take the eggs and young ones of crows and magpies. This hill was a famous object in the neighborhood. It served as the superlative degree of height. As high as Crocksbury Hill' meant with us the utmost degree of height. Therefore, the first object my eyes sought, was this hill. I could not believe my eyes! Literally speaking, I for a moment thought the famous hill removed, and a little heap put in its stead; for I had seen in New Brunswick, a single rock, or hill of solid rock, ten times as big, and four or five times as high! The postboy, going down hill, and not a bad

road, whisked me in a few minutes to the Bush Inn, from the garden of which I could see the prodigious sand hill where I began my gardening works. What a nothing! But now came rushing into my mind, all at once, my pretty little garden, my little blue smock-frock, my little nailed shoes, my pretty pigeons that I used to feed out of my hands, the last kind words and tones of my gentle, and tender-hearted and affectionate mother. I hastened back into the room. If I had looked a moment longer, I should have dropped! When I came to reflect, what a change! What scenes I had gone through ! How altered my state! I had dined the day before at a secretary of state's, in company with Mr. Pitt, and had been waited upon by men in gaudy liveries! I had had nobody to assist me in the world; no teachers of any sort; nobody to shelter me from the consequence of bad, and nobody to counsel me to good behavior. I felt proud. The distinctions of rank, birth, and wealth all became nothing in my eyes; and from that moment I resolved never to bend to them.

4. MR. BUSHNEL'S SONG.

Mr. Bushnel, of Utica, having business in a neighboring town, was obliged, in consequence, to see the landlord of the village inn; so he stopped at his house. When he entered the bar-room, he saw about twenty men in it, most of whom were in a state of intoxication. After a while, one of the company said something to Mr. Bushnel, who replied in a courteous manner, and spoke of the subject of temperance. The attention of the assembly was arrested, and the cause was denounced as the work of priests and politicians.

Mr. Bushnel, finding it impossible to stem the current of abuse by an appeal to their reason, proposed singing a temperance song, and accordingly commenced the "Staunch Teetotaller." On glancing around the room after he had concluded, he observed the tear trickling down the cheek of almost every man. The sentiment of the song, and the melodious, touching manner in which it was sung, had awakened their purest sensibilities; had carried their thoughts back to their families and firesides, surrounded as they once were with plenty, happiness, and affection; and then the contrast of a drunkard's home, its dark wretchedness and misery, were wisely presented to their minds, and those hardened men could not resist the appeal, but acknowledged its truth by tears.

Soon after, the landlord came in, and he was requested to repeat it for his special benefit. After the song was concluded, he grasped Mr. Bushnel by the hand, and exclaimed, “I will never sell another glass of liquor as long as I live."

5. WASHINGTON'S APOLOGY. B. 1732, d. 1799.

Washington, when stationed in early life at Alexandria, with a regiment under his command, grew warm at an election, and said something offensive to a Mr. Payne, who, with one blow of his cane, brought him to the ground. On hearing of the insult, the regiment, burning for revenge, started for the city; but Washington met them, and begged them, by their regard for him, to return peaceably to their barracks. Finding himself in the wrong, he nobly resolved to make an honorable rep

aration, and next morning sent a polite note, requesting Payne to meet him at the tavern. Payne took it for a challenge, and went in expectation of a duel; but what was his surprise to find, instead of pistols, a decanter of wine on the table. Washington rose to meet him, and said with a smile, "Mr. Payne, to err is human; but to correct our errors is always honorable. I believe I was wrong yesterday; you have had, I think, some satisfaction; and if you deem that sufficient, here is my hand—let us be friends." Such an act few could resist; and Payne became from that moment, through life, an enthusiastic friend and admirer of Washington.

Many years after, when he had returned to his family at Mount Vernon, at the close of the war, Mr. Payne called on him; and he is said to have introduced him to Mrs. Washington with a degree of pleasantry quite unusual to his character; "I have the pleasure, my dear, to introduce to you my old friend, Mr. Payne, who once had the bravery to knock me down, big as I am.”

LESSON XXXIII.

1. THE WORLD.-Anonymous.

How beautiful the world is!

The green

earth cov

ered with flowers, the trees laden with rich blossoms, the blue sky, and the bright water and the golden sunshine. The world is indeed beautiful, and He who made it must be beautiful.

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