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his parents, he is not permitted to enjoy any post of trust or honor. It is believed that a sacrifice, offered by an impious hand, can neither be acceptable to Heaven, nor prof itable to the state; and that an undutiful son cannot be capable of performing any great action, or of executing justice with impartiality. Therefore, my son, if you be wise, you will pray to Heaven to pardon the offences com5 mitted against your mother. Let no one discover the contempt with which you have treated her; for the world will condemn, and abandon you for such behavior. And if it be even suspected, that you repay with ingratitude the good offices of your parents, you will inevitably forego the kindness of others; because, no man will suppose that you have a heart to requite either his favors or his friendship."

It was a noble spectacle amidst the flames that were consuming Troy, and while the multitude were intent only o rescuing their paltry treasures, to see the dutiful Æneas bearing on his shoulder the venerable Anchises, his aged father, to a place of safety. But ah! how rare such examples of filial piety! My God! the blood freezes in the veins at the thought of the ingratitude of children. Spirits of my sainted parents, could I recall the hours when it was in my power to honor you, how different should be my con duct. Ah! were not the dead unmindful of the reverence the living pay them, I would disturb the silence of your tombs with nightly orisons, and bedew the urn which contains your ashes with perpetual tears!—Nott.


The Fat Actor and the Rustic.-ANONYMOUS.


"Of an unbounded stomach," Shakspeare says,
Meaning (in metaphor) for ever puffing
To swell beyond his size and span.

But had he seen a player of our days,
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,
He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equalled not that within the bounds



This actor's belt surrounds,
Which is, moreover, all alive and real.
This player, when the peace enabled shɔale
Of our odd fishes

To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic kraken
Although his wishes.

Must not in this proceeding be mistaken:
For he went out professionally bent
To see how money might be made, not spent.
In this most laudable employ

He found himself at Lille one afternoon,
3 And that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon
Out of the town, he took a stroll,
Refreshing in the fields his soul

With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.
When we are pleasantly employed time flies:
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

Until the moon began to shine,

On which he gazed awhile, and then
Pulled out his watch and cried, "Past nine!

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Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten!"
Backward he turned his steps instarter,
Stumping along with might and main;
And though 'tis plain

He couldn't gallop, trot or canter,

(Those who had seen him, would confess it) he
Marched well for one of such obesity.

Eyeing his watch and now his forehead mopping
He puffed and blew along the road,

5 Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping;
When in his path he met a clown
Returning from the town:


"Tell me," he panted in a thawing state,
"Dost think I can get in, friend, at the
"Get in," replied the hesitating loon,
Measuring with his eye our bulky wight,
"Why-yes, sir-I should think you might,

A load of hay went in this afternoon."

Kraken, a fabulous sea-monster.

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Prince Henry. Why thou owest Heaven a death. (Exit.) Falstaff. "Tis not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calleth not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word? What is that word honor? Air. A trim reckoning !—Who hath it? He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to 'the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it-therefore, I'll none of it; Honor is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.Shakspeare.


Conflagration of an Amphitheatre at Rome.—CROLY.

ROME was an ocean of flame. Height and depth were covered with red surges, that rolled before the blast like an endless tide. The billows burst up the sides of the hills, which they turned into instant volcanoes, exploding volumes of smoke and fire; then plunged into the depths in a hundred glowing cataracts, then climbed and consumed again. The distant sound of the city in her convulsion went to the soul. The air was filled with the steady roar of the advancing flame, the crash of falling houses, and the hideous outcry of the myriads flying through the streets, or surrounded and perishing in the conflagration.

All was clamor, violent struggle, and helpless death. Men and women of the highest rank were on foot, trampled by the rabble that had then lost all respect of conditions. One dense mass of miserable life, irresistible from its weight, crushed by the narrow streets, and scorched by the flames over their heads, rolled through the gates like an endless stream of black lava.

The fire had originally broken out upon the Palatine, and

hot smokes that wrapped and half blinded us, hung thick 3 as night upon the wrecks of pavilions and palaces; but the dexterity and knowledge of my inexplicable guide carried us on. It was in vain that I insisted upon knowing the purpose of this terrible traverse. He pressed his hand on his heart in reassurance of his fidelity, and still spurred on. We now passed under the shade of an immense range of lofty buildings, whose gloomy and solid strength seemed to bid defiance to chance and time. A sudden yell appalled me. A ring of fire swept round its summit; burning cordage, sheets of canvass, and a shower 4 of all things combustible, flew into the air above our heads. An uproar followed, unlike all that I had ever heard-a hideous mixture of howls, shrieks and groans. The flames rolled down the narrow street before us, and made the passage next to impossible. While we hesitated, a huge fragment of the building heaved, as if in an earthquake, and fortunately for us fell inwards. The whole scene of terror was then open. The great amphitheatre of Statilius Taurus had caught fire: the stage with its inflammable furniture, was intensely blazing below. The flames 5 were wheeling up, circle above circle, through the seventy thousand seats that rose from the ground to the roof. 1 stood in unspeakable awe and wonder on the side of this colossal cavern, this mighty temple of the city of fire. At length a descending blast cleared away the smoke that covered the arena.-The cause of those horrid cries was now visible. The wild beasts kept for the games had broken from their dens.-Maddened by affright and pain, lions, tigers, panthers, wolves, whole herds of the monsters of India and Africa, were inclosed in an impassable barrier 6 of fire. They bounded, they fought, they screamed, they tore; they ran howling round and round the circle; they made desperate leaps upwards through the blaze; they were flung back, and fell only to fasten their fangs in each other, and with their parching jaws bathed in blood, die raging. I looked anxiously to see whether any human being was involved in this fearful catastrophe. To my great relief, I could see none. The keepers and attendants had obviously escaped. As I expressed my gladness, I was startled by a loud cry from my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter. He pointed to the opposite side of

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7 the amphitheatre. There indeed sat an object of melancholy interest: a man who had been either unable to escape, or had determined to die. Escape was now impossible. He sat in desperate calmness on his funeral pile. He was a gigantic Ethiopian slave, entirely naked. He had chosen his place, as if in mockery, on the imperial throne; the fire was above him and around him; and under this tremendous canopy he gazed, without the movement of a muscle, on the combat of the wild beasts below; a solitary sovereign, with the whole tremendous game played for him'self, and inaccessible to the power of man.


The Maniac.-LEWIS.

1 STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my wo!
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,

And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;

My language shall be mild, though sad;
But yet I firmly, truly swear,
I am not mad, I am not mad.

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2 My tyrant husband forged the tale,

Which chains me in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown my friends bewail-

Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell :
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer:

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad, I am not mad.

3 He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see-

'Tis gone and all is gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold !-No warmth no light!-
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.

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