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and may it wring thy heart, that altho' my friend is ruin'd by thy snares, yet as a brother to poor Beverly, I will pursue the robber that has stripped him, and snatch him from his gripe.

Stu. Then know, imprudent man, he is within my gripe; and should my friendship for him be slandered once again, that hand that has supplied him shall fall and crush him.

Lew. Why, now there's a spirit in thee! This is indeed to be a villain! But I shall reach thee yet-Fly where thou wilt, my vengeance shall pursue thee-And Beverly shall yet be saved; be saved from thee, thou monster! nor owe his rescue to his wife's dishonour.



Lew. BEVERLY, well met, I have been busy in your affairs.

Bev. So I have heard, Sir; and now must thank you as I ought.

Lew. To-morrow I may deserve your thanks. Late as it is, I go to Bates. Discoveries are making that an arch villain trembles at.

Bev. Discoveries are made, Sir, that you shall tremble at. Where is this boasted spirit, that high demeanor, that was to call me to an account? You say I have wronged my sister-Now say as much. But first be ready for defence, as I am for resentment. (Draws.)

Lew. What mean you? I understand you not.

Bev. The coward's stale acquittance! Who, when he speaks vile calumny abroad, and dreads, just vengeance on him, cries out, "What mean you? I understand you not." Lew. Coward and calumny! whence are those words?. But I forgive and pity you.

Bev. Your pity had been kinder to my fame; but you have traduced it; told a vile story to the public ear, that I have wronged my sister.

Lew. 'Tis false. Shew me the man who dares ac

cuse me.

Bev. I thought you brave, and of a soul superior to low malice; but I have found you, and will have vengeance. This is no place for argument.

Lew. Nor shall it be for violence. Imprudent man! who, in revenge for fancied injuries, would pierce the heart that loves him. But honest friendship acts from itself, unmoved by slander, or ingratitude. The life you thirst for shall be employed to serve you. Bev. 'Tis thus you would compound then. a wrong beyond forgiveness, and, to redress it, with kindness unsolicited. I'll not receive them. Your

zeal is troublesome.

Lew. No matter, it shall be useful.

Bev. It will not be


Lew. It must. You know me not.

First do

load me

Bev. Yes, for the slanderer of my fame; who, under shew of friendship, arraigns me of injustice; every ear foul breach of trust and family dishonour.

Lew. Have I done this? Who told you so?

Bev. The world. 'Tis talk'd of every where. It pleased you to add threats, too. You were to call me to an account-Why, do it now, then; I shall be proud of such an arbiter.

Lew. Put up your sword, and know me better. I have never injured you. The base suggestion comes from Stukely; I see him, and his aims.

Bev. What aims? I'll not conceal it; 'twas Stukely that accused you.

Lew. To rid him of an enemy--Perhaps of twoHe fears discovery, and frames a tale of falsehood to ground revenge and murder on.

Bev. I must have proof of this.

Lew. Wait till to-morrow then.
Bev. I will.

Lew. I go to serve you. Forget what's past, as I do; and cheer your family with smiles. To-morrow may confirm them, and make all happy. (Exit.)

Bev. (pausing.) How vile, and how absurd is man! This boasted honour is but another name for pride, which easier bears the consciousness of guilt, than the world's just reproofs. But 'tis the fashion of the times; and in defence of falsehood and false honour, men die martyrs.; I knew not my nature was so bad. (Stands musing.)


THE Compiler has selected such pieces of poetry as, in his opinion, afford many op portunities for the scholar to exert his talents to advantage. A reader of nice and delicate discrimination will readily perceive in every poetical composition, however trifling, several situations wherein he may afford amusement, and produce astonishing effects on the minds of his hearers. In the delivery of some passages, so much depends upon such a nicety of expression, look, and manner, in the reader, that it will be impossible to point out the exact method. Graces, like these, which give the greatest beauty to a poem, cannot be reduced to any precise rules; but must be left to the discriminating taste and powers of the reader to find out; and the occasional remarks added to each piece, it is presumed, will greatly assist him in the research.



I SAW an aged beggar in my walk,
And he was seated by the highway side
On a low structure of rude masonry,
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile, and from a bag,

All white with flour, the dcle of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,
And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look
Of idle contemplation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and eat his food in solitude;
And ever, scatter'd, from his palsied hand,
That still attempting to prevent the waste
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him, from my childhood, have I known, and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary man,

So helpless in appearance, that for him

The sauntering horseman traveller does not throw
With careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old man's hat; nor quits him so,

But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Towards the aged beggar turns a look
Side-long and half reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged beggar, in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance
The old man does not change his course,
the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the road side,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary man ;

His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect Thus, from day to day, Bow bent, his eyes forever on the ground, He plies his weary journey, seeing still, And never knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scatter'd leaf, or marks, which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left Impress'd on the white road, in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust; he is so stil In look and motion that the cottage curs, Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The busy maids and youths, all pass him by. But deem not this man useless-Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, Heart swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, and wisdom deem him not A burthen of the earth. While thus he creeps From door to door, the villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity. Where'er the aged beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason, yet prepares that after joy Which reason cherishes. And the soul, By that sweet of pleasure unpursu'd Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd To virtue and true goodness

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!

And while, in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has led him, he appears
To breath and live but for himself alone,
Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of heaven
Has hung around him, and while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unletter'd villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts

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Fe are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No more behold the horizontal sun

Rising and setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of high way side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,
As in the eye of nature he has lived,
So in the eye of nature let him die.


Within my breast may peace a dwelling find;
May my good will extend to all mankind
Free from necessity, blest with health,
Give me content; let others toil for wealth,
In busy scenes of life, let me exert
A careful band, and wear an honest heart.
In journeying on, as I advance in age,
May I look back with pleasure on the stage.
And as yon setting sun withdraws his light
To shine in other worlds serene and bright,
May I with joy resign my vital breath,
Nor anxious tremble at the approach of death;
Which will, I hope, but rob me of this clay,
And to a better world my soul convey.



A piece of poetry, better adapted to the practice of reading than the following, cannot be recommended to the scholar. If read with propriety, it will soon correct the monotonist of that sameness of tone, which so disgusts in most common readers, and with which no person can ever reasonably expect to give pleasure to those who are so unfortunate as to be his hearers.

WHEN Music, beav'nly maid (1) was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell,

(1) Read the words marked in an impressive manner.

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