object, and then, by employing a proper selection of circumstances in describing it, transmits that impression in its full force to the imagination of others."

4. One of the chief beauties of description consists in laying hold of such incidents as make a sudden and strong impression upon the mind-something that one can almost see, or hear, or feel, with all the vividness of the reality. Washington Irving excels as a descriptive prose writer; and in his writings are found numerous examples of the kind of beauty here referred to, in which a single well-chosen circumstance often lights up the description, as if a flash of sunlight had fallen upon the scene.*

5. This descriptive faculty, which is a mark of true genius, is often seen in small things, and apparently trifling incidents, just as, in a picture, some one object-and perhaps an accessory one too-arrests the attention, and throws its charm over the whole. Thus, in the following brief description, in which the farmer and the sailor appeal to Fortune to favor them, the last line paints a vivid picture of the sailor, while the farmer, spoken of in general terms only, is thrown entirely into the background:

"Thee 13, the poor farmer's anxious care

Solicits, that his fields may bear':

Thee 13, mistress of the main, the sailor hails,

As his Bithynian bark o'er Cretan billows sails."—HORACE.

6. The poet Thomson, in describing the pestilence that destroyed the English fleet at Carthagena, in 1741, under Admiral Vernon, adds greatly to the effect of an already striking picture, by introducing, in the two closing lines, the single circumstance of the Admiral listening to the melancholy sound of dead bodies thrown overboard every night: -You, gallant Vernon',2 saw

7.

The miserable scene'; you', pitying', saw

To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arms';
Saw the deep racking pang'; the ghastly form';
The lip pale quiv'ring'; and the beamless eye
No more with ardor bright': you heard the groans
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore';

* Some very striking examples of this kind, in Irving's writings, may be found in the Lesson commencing on page 215 of the Fifth Reader.

Heard nightly plunged', amid the sullen waves',
The frequent corse'.-THOMSON's Seasons.

8. With reference to Thomson's vivid powers of description, we quote the following from Dr. Johnson:

"His descriptions of extended scenes and general effects bring before us the whole magnificence of nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gayety of spring', the splendor of summer', the tranquillity of autumn', and the horror of winter', take', in their turn', possession of the mind'. The poet leads us through the appearances of things, as they are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthusiasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his sentiments."

9. In describing scenes of a gay, smiling, or quiet nature', such as the charms of country life', a diffuse style, with much amplification, is allowable': but in describing solemn or great objects', and also when a sublime or a pathetic impression is intended', it is only the concise manner, that calls up sudden and bold images, that is appropriate. And as life and action are requisite in every good painting', so should every complete description of natural objects—which is but a painting in words-be enlivened by the presence of living beings.

10. Moreover, a description of particular things is much more effective than a description of things in general; for it is only of particular objects that images can be formed in the mind. Thus a hill, a river, or a lake, engages the attention, and enlists the fancy, far more effectively, when some particular hill, river, or lake is specified, than when the terms are left general. The descriptions in Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, and Milton, and Thomson, abound with particulars that may be seen by the eye of fancy: and Shakspeare is no less remarkable for avoiding the use of general terms. In the Song of Solomon, it is not a rose, a lily, a flock, or a stream in general, that is used to set off the description; but it is "the rose of Sharon," "the lily of the valleys"," "the flock which feeds on Mount Gilead,;" and "the stream which comes from Lebanon'," whereby a living interest attaches to every scene that is mentioned.

LESSON VIII.

A PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

PROOTER.

[BRYAN WALLER PROOTER, one of the most delightful of English poets, was born in the year 1790. He is better known under the assumed name of Barry Cornwall. The circumstance of the raven, mentioned at the close of the second verse of this lesson, is one of those beauties of description mentioned in verse 4 of the preceding lesson.]

1. I saw a pauper' once, when I was young',

Borne to his shallow grave': the bearers trod
Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung;

And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod:
On the rough boards the earth was gayly flung;
Methought the prayer which gave him to his God
Was coldly said;—then all, passing away,

Left the scarce coffin'd wretch to quick decay.

2. It was an autumn evening', and the rain

Had ceased a while', but the loud winds did shriek, And called the deluging tempest back again;

The flag-staff on the church-yard tower did creak,
And through the black clouds ran a lightning vein:
And then the flapping raven came to seek

Its home: its flight was heavy, and its wing
Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering.

LESSON IX.

ATHENS BY MOONLIGHT,

AS VIEWED FROM THE ACROPOLIS: 1867.

[By "Mark Twain," a pseudonyme of Samuel L. Clemens, an American prose writer.] 1. THE full moon was rising high in the cloudless heavens. We sauntered carelessly and unthinkingly to the edge of the lofty battlements of the citadel, and looked down—a vision'! And such a vision'! Athens by moonlight'! The prophet, who thought the splendors of the New Jerusalem were revealed to him, surely saw this instead!

2. It lay in the level plain, right under our feet-all spread

abroad like a picture-and we looked down upon it as we might have looked from a balloon. We saw no semblance of a street; but every house, every window, every clinging vine, every projection was as distinct and sharply marked as if the time were noonday: and yet there was no glare, no glitter, nothing harsh or repulsive-the noiseless city was flooded with the mellowed light that ever streamed from the moon, and seemed like some living creature wrapped in peaceful slumber.

3. On its further side was a little temple, whose delicate pillars and ornate front glowed with a rich lustre that chained the eye like a spell; and nearer by, the palace of the king reared its creamy walls out of the midst of a great garden of shrubbery that was flecked all over with a random shower of amber lights-a spray of golden sparks that lost their brightness in the glory of the moon, and glinted softly upon the sea of dark foliage like the pallid stars of the milky way. Overhead the stately columns, majestic still in their ruin` -underfoot the dreaming city'-in the distance the silver sea-not on the broad earth is there another picture half so beautiful!

LESSON X.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

From the French of Victor Hugo.

[M. VICTOR HUGO, a noted and voluminous French poet, novelist, and political writer, was born in 1802. He has been compelled to leave France on account of his opposition to Louis Napoleon.

The following poem is mostly descriptive: but the first line of the 2d verse is didactic (see p. 68); and the 3d verse is partly didactic and partly descriptive. The last three lines of the lesson contain a beautiful simile. (See Simile, p. 111.)]

1. My daughter'2, go and pray'! See, night is come:
One golden planet pierces through the gloom;
Trembles the misty outline of the hill.
Listen! the distant wheels in darkness glide-
All else is hushed; the tree by the roadside

Shakes in the wind its dust-strewn branches still.

2. Day is for evil, weariness, and pain.

Let us to prayer! calm night is come again:

The wind among the ruined towers so bare
Sighs mournfully: the herds, the flocks, the streams',
All' suffer', all complain`; worn nature seems

Longing for peace, for slumber, and for prayer.

3. It is the hour when babes with angels speak.
While we are rushing to our pleasures weak

And sinful, all young children, with bent knees,
Eyes raised to Heaven, and small hands folded fair,
Say at the self-same hour the self-same prayer
On our behalf, to Him who all things sees.

4. And then they sleep. Oh peaceful cradle-sleep'10!
Oh childhood's hallowed prayer 10; religion deep
Of love', not fear', in happiness expressed'!
s. So the young bird, when done its twilight lay
Of praise, folds peacefully at shut of day
Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest.

LESSON XI.

THE CATHEDRAL AT MILANa.

Written in 1867.-MARK TWAIN (SAMUEL L. CLEMENS).

1. TOWARD dusk we drew near Milan, and caught glimpses of the city and the blue mountain peaks beyond. But we were not caring for these things-they did not interest us in the least. We were in a fever of impatience; we were dying to see the renowned cathedral! We watched in this direction and that - all around - every where. We needed no one to point it out-we did not wish any one to point it out—we would recognize it, even in the desert of the great Sahara.

--

2. At last a forest of graceful needles, shimmering in the amber sunlight, rose slowly above the pigmy house-tops, as one sometimes sees, in the far horizon, a gilded and pinnacled mass of cloud lift itself above the waste of waves at sea-the Cathedral'! We knew it in a moment.

3. Half of that night, and all of the next day, this archi