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of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for awhile, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go, now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."-Rambler.


ON a fine morning in May, two bees set forward in quest of honey-the one wise and temperate, the other careless and extravagant. They soon arrived at a garden

enriched with aromatic herbs, the most fragrant flowers, and the most delicious fruits. They regaled themselves for a time on the various dainties that were spread before them the one loading his thigh at intervals with provisions for the hive against the distant winter; the other revelling in sweets, without regard to anything but his present gratification. At length they found a widemouthed phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach tree, filled with honey ready tempered, and exposed to their taste in the most alluring manner. The thoughtless epicure, spite of all his friend's remonstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, resolving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality. The philosopher, on the other hand, sipped a little with caution; but being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flowers, where, by the moderation of his meals, he improved his relish for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to inquire whether he would return to the hive; but found him surfeited in sweets, which he was as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clogged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament with his latest breath, that, though a taste of pleasure might quicken the relish of life, an unrestrained indulgence is inevitably destruction.—Dodsley.


ALYATTES, the king of Lydia, had gone every year to war with Miletus. But the men of Miletus took counsel with Periander, the king of the wealthy Corinth, and through his counsels they obtained peace. For they made a show of revelry and feasting, and so deceived the Lydian heralds; though indeed they were so sore bested, that two cotyls of corn had, for a long time, been all that any man had for his day's provisions. So Alyattes thought, "These Milesians have store of food; and their city adjoins the sea, which will bring them always more: wherefore I cannot take their city, and will grant them peace as they desire."

This Periander had a master of his minstrelsy, by name Arion, whose wild and passionate hymns were a marvel to


all who heard them. But Arion was not content to stay always with his master at Corinth; for he thought, “Ă poet should see and know many things, if he would be esteemed for his noble songs." So he resolved to go to Italy and Sicily; for there were many notable cities in these lands, inhabited by settlers of the Grecian tongue. And there the wise Pythagoras had given lessons of wisdom and godliness in secret. King Numa had been taught by him, and so became good and learned, as men report; and Arion well hoped that in the land where Pythagoras had dwelt, he might learn to praise the gods more duly. For the men of old time loved no songs so well as those which had noble tunes, and words full of holy and prudent counsel.

So he went and dwelt a long time in these parts; and the people made him wealthy, and held him high in honour. But at last he thought, "Tarentum is a noble city, and I love to see the Apennines when the sun lifts up the mist from off their peaks at his rising; but Citharon, and Corinth, with its meeting seas, are more to my mind than Lesbos even and Methymne, where I was born."

It was hard to travel in those unsettled times, when city went to war with city both by sea and land; but he thought, "The Corinthians are my friends; and if I can but find a ship of theirs, they will surely carry me and my goods in safety." So he went down to the sea-shore by Tarentum, and set sail in a ship of Corinth.

But the mariners longed to rob him of his riches. So when they came into the open sea, they took counsel to cast him overboard, and possess his goods. But he said, "Take my goods if you will, but let me not die before my time." Yet they would not be persuaded, but bade him either kill himself, that they might give him burial whenever they touched the land; or else to leap forthwith into

the sea. Then he made answer, "This choice is a strait

one but let me first stand on the rowers' seats, and sing the last of my noble songs; and then I will do your bidding." This they were well content to do; for they thought, "To hear such a singer should be no small delight;" and so they left him on the prow alone. Then he put on all his costly robes, and took harp in hand. The swan, which sings not all its life long, yet sings sweetly and joyously when death is at hand. But Arion had been

always a minstrel in heart and in deed: and his song was like a song of triumph. When it was ended, he sprang over into the sea; and a wind arose and bore them quickly away from the place.

But the gods desert not any man of pure and simple heart. There was a sudden flashing of the waves afar off; and a troop of dolphins came, lifting their glittering backs above the water, to meet him. One bore him like a gallant war-horse, whilst the rest followed the ringing of his harpstrings, and his song of thankfulness and victory. Thus wondrously was he carried to the shores of Greece; and landed by the temple of Neptune on the cape of Tænarus.

The Spartans received him gladly for the love of his noble songs. For they said, "We remember how Tyr

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tæus cheered our fathers, in the long Messenian wars, with his songs, which were so like a trumpet.' So he passed on by mount Parthenion-from whence the voice of Pan was heard in the after-time-to Argos, the land where flute-playing is sweetest. And from thence he journeyed on by the staff-road, where the rocks stand upright on the right hand and upon the left. But when the pass was ended, he could see Sicyon upon his left, and upon his right the meeting seas of Corinth, and its citadel overhung by Citharon.

But Periander said, "Arion is turned boaster, and we may not believe his tales." So he was kept in ward until the ship in which he had sailed was come to land. Then Periander hid him behind the arras; and he said to the mariners, when they came before him, "What news of my trusty servant Arion ?" And they made answer readily, “O king, we left him in good case at Tarentum." Then Arion stood forth; and they were dumb with fear and wonder. So they were slain, and no man pitied them.


But Arion sent a thankoffering to the temple on Cape Tænarus. And his offering was a man in bronze, with a dolphin bearing him lovingly across the foaming sea. C. E. Moberly.


A GOOD temper is one of the principal ingredients of

happiness. This, it may be said, is the work of nature, and must be born with us,—and so, in a good measure, it is; yet sometimes it may be acquired by art, and always improved by culture. Almost every object that attracts our notice has its bright and its dark side: he that habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and consequently impair his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are both of them women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper, too; but by different management, are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look only on the dark side of every object. If a new literary work makes its appearance with a thousand beauties, and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you show her an excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery that has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegance; but if you take a walk with her into it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-casts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy; that it is sultry or windy; and finishes with a long harague upon the wretchedness of our climate. When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little cheerful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her, and at last discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave. Melissa is the reverse of all this. By habituating herself to look on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual cheerfulness,

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