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do make all things dark and hard. Once I communed with a man which reasoned the English tongue to be enriched and increased thereby, saying,

"Who will not praise that feast where a man shall drink at a dinner both wine, ale

and beer?"

"Truly," quoth I," they be all good, every one taken by himself alone; but if you put malvesye* and sack, red wine and white, ale and beer, and all in one pot, you shall make a drink not easy to be known, nor yet wholesome for the body. Cicero, in following Isocrates, Plato and Demosthenes, increased the Latin tongue after another sort. This way, because divers men that write do not know they can neither follow it, because of their ignorance, nor yet will praise it for overarrogancy-two faults seldom the one out of the other's company." ROGER ASCHAM.

LOVE IS THE LIFE OF MAN.

FROM THE ORIGINAL LATIN OF EMANUEL SWEDENBORG,

MA

OF SWEDEN.

AN knows that love exists, but he does not know what it is. He knows that it exists from the common use of the word, as in the expressions, He loves me; The king loves his subjects, and subjects love their king; Husband and wife, mother and children, love each other; This man loves his country; that, his fellow-citizens or his neighbor. So, also, men are said to love certain things, this, that or the other, without reference to persons.

But, although the word "love" is so universally used, few know what love is. Because men cannot, when reflecting upon it, form * Malmsey.

any definite idea of its nature, they deny its reality or call it some influence entering man by sight, hearing, touch or conversation, and affecting him. They are utterly ignorant of the fact that love is man's very life-not only the general life of his whole body and the general life of all his thoughts, but also the life of all their particulars. Any one of intelligence intelligence can see this if asked, "Could you either think or act if the influence of love were withdrawn? Are not thought, language and action chilled as love grows cold and animated as love grows warm?" as love grows warm?" But this he knows from experience, not from any recognition of the truth that love is the life of man.

No one knows what human life is unless he knows that it is love. Ignorant of this, one may suppose that life is sensation and action; another, that it is thought. But, in fact, thought is merely the first effect of life, while sensation and action are its secondary effects. Thought is called the first effect of life, but thought may be more and more internal, or more and more external. Inmost thought, which is a perception of ends, is actually the first effect of life.

Some idea of love as being the life of man may be obtained from the effect of the sun's heat upon the world. It is known that this is the general life, as it were, of all vegetation; for from its increase in spring plants of every kind shoot from the soil, are adorned successively with leaves, flowers and fruit, and so in a manner live. But when the heat diminishes, as in autumn and winter, they are stripped of their signs of life, and wither. So is it with love in man, for love and heat correspond to each other. Therefore love is warm.

Translation of R. NORMAN FOSTER.

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THOMAS CAMPBELL.

AMPBELL is the familyname of the house of Argyle, in Scotland, and the distinguished poet was, of a younger branch of this house. His father was a merchant who was not very well to do, especially as he had to support and bring up a family of ten children. The poet was born in Glasgow on the 27th day of July, 1777, and very early displayed literary aptitudes. He was educated in the University of Glasgow, where he received numerous prizes, especially for his proficiency in Greek. Immediately after his graduation he became a tutor in the Isle of Mull, where the impressive scenery and interesting traditions aroused all the poetry in his nature and impelled him to give it utterance. Unable to settle down to the study of one of the learned professions, he surprised the world and settled his career by the unexpected issue, in 1799, of "The Pleasures of Hope," a descriptive and didactic poem of wonderful beauty. He had just completed his twenty-first year, and the additional marvel was that so young a man could have produced such a poem. It at once became very popular, and was regarded as a promise of many and greater poetic efforts a promise which was not to be completely realized. In December, 1800, he saw, from the roof of a Bavarian monastery, a portion of the celebrated battle of

Hohenlinden, between the French and the Austrians, and gave it an additional claim to immortality by the battle-lyric struck off under the electric inspiration

"On Linden, when the sun was low."

In 1801 he wrote "The Exile of Erin," "Ye Mariners of England" and "Lochiel's Warning," the words of which were soon on everybody's lips, and have been ever since. In 1803 he settled in London as a writer of history and criticism, as well as of poetry, but he earned only a precarious support, until in 1805 he received from the government an annual pension of two hundred pounds. This partial relief was greatly increased by the success of his "Gertrude of Wyoming," which, in addition to its merits of versification, had the charm of telling of the New World, in which English civilization was making head against the scalping-knife and the tomahawk.

In 1820, Campbell gave a course of lectures on English literature, which were well received, and in the same year became editor of the New Monthly Magazine-a post which he held for ten years. In 1827 he received the great but merited honor of election as lord-rector of the University of Glasgow. After that he accomplished little. His wife and children died; he became gloomy, melancholy, suspicious of the world; so frightened at his own fame, and so indolent withal, that he was unwilling to do the literary work which the publishers were always ready to offer him. He drank too much; his friends

became tired of his repinings and grievances, and he led a long blank remnant of life until 1844, when he died at Boulogne.

The high and yet splendid ornaments of the "Pleasures of Hope" have never palled upon the public. If "Gertrude" is an ideal without a model, and "Susquehanna's side a fairy-picture, the tenderness and pathos of the poem are real, human and very touching. But his chief glory, the field in which Campbell has absolutely no rival, is that of his martial lyrics, “Linden," " Ye Mariners of England," and, superior to both, "The Battle of the Baltic." To have written that alone would have immortalized him. Entirely sui generis and splendidly sonorous is his "Hallowed Ground." Every stanza is a poem in itself—an embalmed thought; and the whole is a classic, and will be to the latest generations. Having written very much less than his poetical contemporaries, he still occupies a very high and secure place among the English poets of all ages.

LAST WORDS OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

WH

HAT means, then, this abrupt and fearful silence? What unlooked-for calamity has quelled the debates of the Senate and calmed the excitement of the people? An old man whose tongue once, indeed, was eloquent, but now through age had wellnigh lost its cunning, has fallen into the swoon of

death. He was not an actor in the drama of conquest, nor had his feeble voice yet mingled in the lofty argument

"A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent
Was on the visioned future bent."

In the very act of rising to debate, he fell into the arms of Conscript Fathers of the republic. A long lethargy supervened and oppressed his senses. Nature rallied the wasting powers on the verge of the grave for a brief space. But it was long enough for him. The rekindled eye showed that the re-collected mind was clear, calm and vigorous. His weeping family and his sorrowing compeers were there. He surveyed the scene, and knew at once its fatal import. He had left no duty unperformed; he had no wish unsatisfied, no ambition unattained, no regret, no sorrow, no fear, no remorse. He could not shake off the dews of death that gathered on his brow. He could not pierce the thick shades that rose up before him. But he knew that Eternity lay close by the shores of Time. He knew that his Redeemer lived. Eloquence even in that hour inspired him with his ancient sublimity of utterance. This," said the dying man— this is the end of earth." He paused for a moment, and then added, "I am content.' Angels might well draw aside the curtains. of the skies to look down on such a scene— a scene that approximated even to that scene of unapproachable sublimity not to be recalled without reverence when in mortal agony One who spake as never man spake said, "It is finished!"

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THE CHILD OF THE FLAXEN LOCKS.

HILD of the flaxen locks | But ever, when thou rovest from his side,
Watches to win thee back with pitying

and laughing eye, Culling with hasty glee

the flowerets gay,

Or chasing with light foot

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the butterfly,

I love to mark thee at
thy frolic play.

L

OVE is that madness which all lovers have,

But yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave;

Near thee I see thy tender 'Tis an enchantment where the reason's

father stand;
His anxious eye pursues
thy roving track,

And oft with warning voice and beckoning
hand

bound,

But Paradise is in th' enchanted ground;
A palace void of envy, cares and strife,
Where gentle hours delude so much of life.
To take those charms away and set me free

He checks thy speed and gently draws Is but to send me into misery,

thee back.

Why dost thou meekly yield to his decree?
Fair boy, his fond regard to thee is
known;

He does not check thy joys from tyranny;
Thou art his loved, his cherished and his

own.

When worldly lures, in manhood's coming

hours,

And prudence, of whose cure so much you boast,

Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost.

JOHN DRYDEN.

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Tempt thee to wander from discretion's And then thou must be damned perpetually.

way,

Oh, grasp not eagerly the offered flowers: Pause if thy heavenly Father bid thee stay

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of

heaven,

That time may cease and midnight never

come.

Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make

Pause, and in him revere a Friend and Perpetual day, or let this hour be but
Guide

A year, a month, a week, a natural day, Who does not willingly thy faults re- That Faustus may repent and save his soul. O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi!

prove,

The stars move still, time runs, the clock | Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Oh, Pythagoras, metempsychosis! Were that

will strike,

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.

Oh, I will leap to heaven: who pulls me down?

true,

This soul should fly from me, and I be

changed

Into some brutish beast.

See where Christ's blood streams in the fir- All beasts are happy; for when they die.
mament;
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements,
One drop of blood will save me. O my But mine must live still to be plagued in

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Curst be the parents that engendered me:
No, Faustus; curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That hath deprived thee of the joys of
heaven.
The clock strikes twelve.
Now, body, turn to

Where is it now? Tis gone!
And see! a threatening arm and angry brow. It strikes, it strikes!
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on

me,

air,

Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.

And hide me from the heavy wrath of O soul, be changed into small water-drops

Heaven.

No? Then I will headlong run into the earth.

Gape, earth! Oh no, it will not harbor me.
You stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence have allotted death and
hell,

Now draw up Festus like a foggy mist
Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud,
That when you vomit forth into the air
My limbs may issue from your' smoky
mouths,

But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. [The watch strikes. Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past

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