Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee (248.) MISS NOMERS. [Exeunt. Miss Brown is exceedingly fair, Miss White is as red as a berry— Miss Black has a grey head of hair, Miss Graves is a flirt, ever merry. Miss Lightbody weighs sixteen stone, Miss Rich scarce can muster a guinea-Miss Hare wears a wig, and has none, Miss Solomon is a sad ninny. Miss Mildmay's a terrible scold, Miss Dove's ever cross and contrary-Miss Young is now grown very old, and Miss Heaviside's light as a fairy! Miss Short is at least five feet ten, Miss Noble's of humble extraction-Miss Love has a hatred towards men, while Miss Still is for ever in action. Miss Green is a regular blue, Miss Scarlet looks pale as a lily-Miss Violet never shrinks from our view, and Miss Wiseman thinks all the men silly. Miss Goodchild's a gloomy young elf, Miss Lion's, from terror, a fool-Miss Mee's not at all like myself, Miss Carpenter no one can rule. Miss Sadler ne'er mounted a horse, while Miss Groom from the stable will run. Miss Killmore can't look on a corse, and Miss Aimwell ne'er levelled a gun. Miss Greathead has no brain at all, Miss Heartwell is ever complaining-Miss Dance has ne'er been at a ball, over hearts Miss Fairweather likes reigning. Miss Wright she is constantly wrong, Miss Tickle, alas! is not funny; Miss Singer ne'er warbled a song, and, alas! poor Miss Cash has no money. Miss Hatemen would give all she's worth to purchase a man to her liking; Miss Merry is shock'd at all mirth-Miss Boxer the men don't mind striking. Miss Bliss does with sorrow o'erflow, Miss Hope in despair seeks the tomb; Miss Joy still anticipates woe, and Miss Charity's "never at home.” Miss Hamlet resides in a city, the nerves of Miss Steadfast are shaken; Miss Prettyman's beau is not pretty, Miss Faithful her love has forsaken. Miss Porter despises all froth, Miss Scales they'll make weight, I'm thinking; Miss Meekly is apt to be wroth, Miss Lofty to meanness is sinking. Miss Seemore's as blind as a bat, Miss Last at a party is first-Miss Brindle dislikes a striped cat, and Miss Waters has always a thirst! Miss Knight is now changed into Day-Miss Day wants to marry a Knight; Miss Prudence has just run away, and Miss Steady assisted her flight. But success to the fair, one and all- —no misapprehensions be making; though wrong the dear sex to miss-call, there's no harm, I should hope, in miss-taking!-Anon. (249.) JASPAR. On Jaspar was poor, and vice and want had made his heart like stone, and Jaspar look'd with envious eyes on riches not his own. plunder bent abroad he went towards the close of day, and loitered on the lonely road impatient for his prey. No traveller came, he loiter'd long and often look'd around, and paused and listen'd eagerly to catch some coming sound. He sat him down beside the stream that cross'd the lonely way, so fair a scene might well have charm'd all evil thoughts away: he sat beneath a willow-tree that cast a trembling shade, the gentle river full in front a little island made. Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone upon the poplartrees, whose shadow on the stream below play'd slowly to the breeze. He listen'd-and he heard the wind that waved the willow-tree; he heard the waters flow along, and murmur quietly. He listen'd for the traveller's tread, the nightingale sung sweet, he started up, for now he heard the sound of coming feet; he started up and graspt a stake, and waited for his prey; there came a lonely traveller, and Jaspar crost his way. But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd the traveller to appal, he would not lightly yield the purse that held his little all. Awhile he struggled, but he strove with Jaspar's strength in vain; beneath his blows he fell and groaned, and never spoke again. He lifted up the murdered man, and plunged him in the flood, and in the running water then he cleansed his hands from blood. The waters closed around the corpse, and cleansed his hands from gore, the willow waved, the stream flowed on, and murmured as before. There was no human eye had seen the blood the mur derer spilt, and Jaspar's conscience never knew the avenging goad of guilt. And soon the ruffian had consum'd the gold he gain'd so ill, and years of secret guilt pass'd on, and he was needy still. One eve beside the alehouse fire he sat as it befell, when in there came a labouring man whom Jaspar knew full well. He sat him down by Jaspar's side a melancholy man, for, spite of honest toil, the world went hard with Jonathan. And with his wife and little ones he shared the scanty meal, and saw their looks of wretchedness, and felt what wretches feel. That very morn the landlord's power had seized the little left, and now the sufferer found himself of everything bereft. "Nay-why so downcast?" Jaspar cried. "Come -cheer up, Jonathan! Drink, neighbour, drink! 'twill warm thy heart. Come! come! take courage, man!" He took the cup that Jaspar gave, and down he drain'd it quick; “I have a wife,” said Jonathan, "and she is deadly sick. She has no bed to lie upon, I saw them take her bed: and I have children-would to God that they and I were dead! Our landlord he goes home to-night, and he will sleep in peace--I would that I were in my grave, for there all troubles cease. In vain I prayed him to forbear, though wealth enough has he! God be to him as merciless as he has been to me!" "This landlord on his homeward road 'twere easy now to meet; the road is lonesome, Jonathan !—and vengeance, man! is sweet." He listen'd to the tempter's voice, the thought it made him start. His head was hot, and wretchedness had hardened now his heart. Along the lonely road they went, and waited for their prey, they sat them down beside the stream that crossed the lonely way. The night was calm, the night was dark, no star was in the sky, the wind it waved the willow boughs, the stream flowed quietly. The night was calm, the air was still, sweet sung the nightingale, the soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, his heart began to fail. ""Tis weary waiting here," he cried, "and now the hour is late; methinks he will not come to-night, 'tis useless more to wait." "Have patience, man!" the ruffian said, "a little we may wait, but longer shall his wife expect her husband at the gate.” Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, "My conscience yet is clear, Jaspar-it is not yet too late-I will not linger here." "How now!" cried Jaspar, "why, I thought thy conscience was asleep. No more such qualms; the night is dark, the river here is deep.” "Whet matters that?" said Jonathan, whose blood began to freeze, “when there is One above, whose eye the deeds of darkness sees?" "We are safe enough,” said Jaspar then, “if that be all thy fear; nor eye below, nor eye above, can pierce the darkness here." That instant as the murderer spake there came a sudden light; strong as the mid-day sun it shone, though all around was night. It hung upon the willow-tree, it hung upon the flood, it gave to view the poplar isle and all the scene of blood. It lighted up with mystic pow'r as in some ghastly dream, and fell upon the skeleton fast rotting in the stream. The traveller who journeys there, he surely has espied a madman who has made his home upon the river's side. His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, his look bespeaks despair; for Jaspar since that hour has made his home unshelter'd there. The summer suns, the winter storms, o'er him unheeded roll, for heavy is the weight of blood upon the maniac's soul.--Robert Southey. (250.) ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which appears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling begins to wear away; they look around them: and find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. "What man has done, man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their name a foot above those of a hundred full-grown men who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion-except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is "no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach. It was the name of Washington. He had been there and left his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious thought to write his name side by side with that great father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and, clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep into that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new-created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough; heedless of the entreaties of his com panions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends grow weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now for the first time casts a look beneath him-had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment! what a meagre chance to escape destruction! there is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet and retain his slender hold a moment. He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearthstone. Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energy of despair:-"William! William! Don't look down! Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here praying for you! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards the top!" The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards Heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from below. How carefully he uses his wasted blade! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he avoids every flinty grain! How he economizes his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts! How every motion is watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brother, and sister, on the very spot, where if he falls he will not fall alone. The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in the mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction to get from this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands upon the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must be cut |