Sandleford, even though George went in immediately, 'determined,' as he said, 'to conquer fortune.' Small hopes for Sandleford!

· Come, Charles,' said Horace Lucas, let us see whether your bowling may not be as good as your batting. Just give your cousin one ball.' And, at the very first ball, the stumps rattled; and the discomfited cricketer slunk away, amidst the crowing of his antagonists and the reproaches of his mates, so crest-fallen, that even Horace was touched by his disconsolate countenance and humbled air. His tender-hearted cousin felt a still deeper sympathy, and almost lamented his own success. 'It is all luck, sir,' said he, in answer to a compliment from General Lucas, who stood talking to him after the match had been triumphantly won. 'It is all luck! Poor George is a far better player than I am; he was so yesterday, and will be so to-morrow. This is merely the fortune of a day, a trifle not worth a word or a thought!'

6

'The object is trifling, I grant you, my good friend,' said the general; and luck may have had some share in the victory. But I am much mistaken, if your success, and your cousin's mortification, be not of essential benefit to both. It is one of the most salutary parts of the world's discipline, that 'modesty should triumph, and that pride should have a fall!

EXERCISE L.

THE EMIGRANT'S REMEMBRANCES.

-E. Pollock.

Bright summer is around me,
With her thousand leafy smiles;
And summer birds are singing
Within the forest aisles.
Sweet summer is around me,

But still the thought will come,
That these are not my native scenes,
That this is not my home!

But still the thought will come, That these are not my native scenes, That this is not my home. For, oh! among the blossoms That gem the wood and dell, I miss the mountain-daisy, I miss the heather-bell! And through the wood's recesses, For hours though I have been, Still I cannot find the holly,

With its leaves of evergreen.

The meadows may be greener,
The skies a fairer blue;
But man can never know a land

Like that his childhood knew ;
And still it seems the fairer
Beneath the mist of years,
When the sunny eye of boyhood
Is dimmed with many tears.
These sweet and pleasant memories,
They haunt me like a dream;
The old tree and the rustic bridge
That lay across the stream;
The cottage by the lone hill-side,
The white and flowering thorn,
Where I heard the red-breast singing
Each day at early morn.

And the faces, oh! the faces,
So happy and so gay,

Of friends that gathered round me,
Upon a summer's day;

Ah! more than native flowers,
When balmy breezes blow,
Do I miss the eyes that glistened
Around me long ago!

The deer-hunter's dress consists of a leather hunting-shirt, and a pair of trousers of the same material. His feet are well moccasined; he wears a belt round his waist; his heavy rifle is resting on his brawny shoulder; on one side hangs his ball-pouch, surmounted by the horn of an ancient buffalo, once the terror of the herd, but now containing a pound of the best gunpowder; his knife is scabbarded in the same strap; and behind is a tomahawk, the handle of which has been thrust through his girdle.

The hunter walks with so rapid a step, that, probably, few men besides ourselves, that is, myself and my reader,could follow him, unless for a short distance, in their anxiety to witness his ruthless deeds. He stops, looks at the flint of his gun, its priming, and the leather cover of the lock, then glances his eye towards the sky, to judge of the course most likely to lead him to the game.

The heavens are clear; the red glare of the morning sun gleams through the lower branches of the lofty trees; the dew hangs in pearly drops at the tip of every leaf. Already has the emerald hue of the foliage been converted into the more glowing tints of our autumnal months. A slight frost appears on the fence-rails of his little cornfields.

As he proceeds, he looks to the dead foliage under his feet, in search of the well-known traces of the buck's hoof. Now, he bends towards the ground, on which something has attracted his attention. See; he alters his course, increases his speed, and will soon reach the opposite hill.

Now, he moves with caution; stops at almost every tree; and peeps forward, as if already within shooting-distance of the game. He advances again; but how very slowly! He has reached the declivity, upon which the sun shines in all its glowing splendor; but, mark him! he takes the gun from his shoulder, has already thrown aside the leathern cover of the lock, and is wiping the edge of the flint with his tongue. Now he stands like a monumental figure, perhaps measuring the distance between him and the game which he has in view. His rifle is slowly raised; the report follows; and he Let us run, also. Shall I speak to him, and ask him the result of his first essay?- Assuredly, reader; for I know him well.

runs.

6

'Pray, friend, what have you killed?'-for, to say, 'What have you shot at?' might imply the possibility of his having missed, and so might hurt his feelings. Nothing but a buck.' And where is it? Oh! it has taken a jump, or so; but I settled it, and will soon be with it. My ball struck, and must have gone through his heart.' We arrive at the spot, where the poor animal had lain down among the grass, in a thicket of grape-vines, sumachs, and spruce-bushes, where it intended to repose during the middle of the day. The place is covered with blood; the hoofs of the deer have left deep prints in the ground, as it bounded in the agonies produced by its wound; but the blood that has gushed from its side, discloses the course which it has taken.

We soon reach the spot. There lies the buck; its tongue out, its eye dim, its breath exhausted; it is dead. The hunter draws his knife, and, having made the necessary cut, to allow the blood to escape, prepares to skin his prize. For this purpose he hangs it upon the branch of a tree. When the skin is removed, he cuts off the hams, and abandoning the rest of the carcass to the wolves and vultures, reloads his gun, flings the venison, enclosed by the skin, upon his back, secures it with a strap, and walks off in search of more game.

RULE FOR THE READING OF VIVID DESCRIPTION.

Pieces of a graphic or highly descriptive character, need constant attention to change of voice, so as to keep the utterance LOW, Soft, and SLOW, in SOLEMN and PATHETIC passages, and HIGH, LOUD, and BRISK, in those which are LIVELY.

EXERCISE LII.

THE BARNSTABLE BOY.-J. G. Palfrey.

The duck does not take to the water with a surer instinct than the Barnstable boy. He leaps from his leading-strings into the shrouds. It is but a bound from the mother's lap to the mast-head. He boxes the compass in his infant soliloquies. He can hand, reef, and steer, by the time he flies a kite. The ambition of his youth is, to witch the world with noble seamanship;' and his manly 'march is on the mountainwave; his home, no, no; I am too fast, his home is and, in his widest wanderings, he never forgets that it is not. His home stands on firm land, nestled among some light-houses, which, in the blackest midnight of a polar winter, his mind's eye sees, casting their serene radiance over the wide waters, to guide him back to the goal, as it was the starting-place, of life's varied voyage.

not the deep;

While he keeps the long night-watches, under the Cross of the southern hemisphere, his spirit is travelling half around the globe to look in at the fireside, where,—the household duties of the day gone through, the mother, or the sister, or the wife, or the dear friend that is not wife, but shall be, is musing on her absent sailor.

The gales of Cape Horn, or the monsoons of the Indian sea, are piping in his cordage; but clearer, and through and above all their roar, his ear is drinking in the low, sweet voice, that is lulling here his infant's distant slumber. And, whether he eyes, with the conscious pride of art, the 'thing of life' he is managing, as, all tight and trim, her upper rigging sent down, she leaps, free and sure-footed, poised by a scant edge of maintopsail, from peak to peak of the now rising, now subsiding, watery Alps, while his hoarse voice, amid the mad uproar of the elements, guides her fierce way, as if by magic; -or whether, on the quiet Sabbath, in the garish sunset, or beneath the broad enveloping moonlight, his beautiful vessel skims under the line, over the level floor of the ocean, with all her snowy toggery, (I should say her bravery,) set, as gentle and noiseless as a flock of white doves,--still, still, loved spot of his nativity

'Where'er he roams, whatever realms to see,

His heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee.'