My heart smote me the moment he shut the doorPshaw!" said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times. But it would not do! Every ungracious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my imagination. I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language I considered his gray hairs-his courteous figure seemed to re-enter; and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an advocate-" I have behaved very ill," said I within myself; "but I have only just set out on my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along." Sterne.

On Military Glory.

"You will grant me, however," interposed Tiberius, 'that there are refined and sensible delights, in their nature proper for the gratification of a monarch, which are always sure to give rational enjoyment, without the danger of disgusting by repetition ?""As for instance?" says Belisarius." The love of glory, for instance," replied the young man.— -"But what sort of glory?"—" Why, of all the various classes of glory, renown in arms must hold the foremost place."-" Very well; that is your position: and do you think the pleasure that springs from conquest has a sincere and lasting charm in it? Alas! when millions are stretched in mangled heaps upon the field of battle, can the mind in that situation taste of joy? I can make no allowance for those who have met danger in all its shapes: They may be permitted to congratulate themselves, that they have escaped with their lives; but, in the case of a king born with sensibility of heart, the day that spills a deluge of human blood, and bids the tears of natural affection flow in rivers round the land; that cannot be a day of true enjoyment. I have more than once traversed over a field of battle; I would have been glad to have seen a Nero in my place: the tears of humanity must have burst from him. I know there are princes who take the pleasure of a campaign, as they do that of hunting; and who send forth their people to the fray, as they let slip their dogs: but the rage of conquest is like the unrelenting temper of

avarice, which torments itself, and is to the last insatiable. A province has been invaded, it has been subdued, it lies contiguous to another not yet attempted. Desire begins to kindle, invasion happens after invasion, ambition irritates itself to new projects; till at length comes a reverse of fortune, which exceeds, in the mortification it brings, all the pride and joy of former victories. But, to give things every flattering appearance, let us suppose a train of uninterrupted success: yet, even in that case, the conqueror pushes forward, like another Alexander, to the limits of the world, and then, like him, re-measures back his course; fatigued with triumphs, a burden to himself and mankind, at a loss what to do with the immense tracts which he has depopulated, and melancholy with the reflection, that an acre of his conquests would suffice to maintain him, and a little pit-hole to hide his remains from the world. In my youth I saw the sepulchre of Cyrus; a stone bore this inscription: I am Cyrus, he who subdued the Persian empire. Friend, whoever thou art, or wherever thy native country, envy me not the scanty space that covers my clay-cold ashes.' 'Alas!" said I, turning aside from the mournful epitaph, ́is it worth while to be a conqueror!"

Tiberius interrupted him with astonishment: “Can these be the sentiments of Belisarius!"-" Yes, young man, thus thinks Belisarius: he is able to decide upon the subject. Of all the plagues which the pride of man has engendered, the rage of conquest is the most destructive."

Liberty and Slavery.

Marmontel.

DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands, in all ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty! thrice sweet and gracious goddess! whom all, in public or in private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch; from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great bestower of it! and give me but this fair goddess as my companion! and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good

unto thy divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them!

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table; and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me I took a single captive; and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned his bloodhe had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children-but here my heart began to bleed-and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed. A little kalendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery, to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door-then cast it down-shook his head

and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle-He gave a deep sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul.-I burst into tears. I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. Sterne.

Reyno and Alpin.

Reyno. THE wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hill, flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill.-Sweet are thy mur

murs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear.-It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead.—Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye.Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood-as a wave on the lonely shore?

Alpin. My tears, O Reyno! are for the dead-my voice for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain-But thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the hall unstrung.

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill-terrible as a meteor of fire.- -Thy wrath was as the storm-thy

sword, in battle, as lightning in the field.- -Thy voice was like a stream after rain-like thunder on distant hills. -Many fell by thy arm-they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain-like the moon in the silence of night-calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. -Narrow is thy dwelling now-dark the place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree, with scarce a leaf-long grass whistling in the wind-mark, to the hunter's eye, the grave of the mighty Morar!-Morar! thou art low indeed: thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love: dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan.-Who, on his staff, is this? who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are galled with tears, who quakes at every step?

-It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son, but thee. Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead-low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice-no more awake at thy call.- -When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?-Farewell! thou bravest of men: thou conqueror in the field: but the field shall see thee no more; nor the gloomy wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel.Thou hast left no son-but the song shall preserve thy name.

Ossian.

Story of the Siege of Calais.

EDWARD III. after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city. The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant governor, made an admirable defence. France had now put the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, with his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At length, famine did more for Edward than arms. After suffering unheard-of calamities, they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle; and, after a long and desperate engagement, Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and the citizens who survived the slaughter retired within their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he permitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the imputation of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him six of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, consternation and pale dismay were impressed on every countenance. To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly:- My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either yield to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror, or give up our tender infants, our wives, and daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of delivering up those who have suffered every misery with you, on the one hand, or the desolation and horror of a sacked city, on the other? There is, my friends; there is one expedient left!-a gracious, an excellent, a godlike expedient left! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a blessed approbation from that Power who offered up his only Son