paces above the surface of the lake. It was divided into many squares or courts, built with greater or less magnificence, according to the rank of those for whom they were designed. The roofs were turned into arches of massy stone, joined by a cement that grew harder by time, and the building stood from century to century, deriding rains and hurricanes, without need of reparation.

This house, which was so large as to be fully known to none but some ancient officers who successively inherited the secrets of the place, was built as if suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage, every square had a communication with the rest, either from the upper stories by private galleries or by subterranean passages from the lower apartments. Many of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of monarchs had deposited their treasures. They then closed up the opening with marble, which was never to be removed but in the utmost exigencies of the kingdom, and recorded their accumulations in a book which was itself concealed in a tower not entered but by the emperor, attended by the prince who stood next in succession.

Here the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and repose, attended by all that were skilful to delight, and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and slept in the fortresses of security. Every art was practised to make them pleased with their own condition. The sages who instructed them told them of nothing but the miseries of public life, and described all beyond the mountains as regions of calamity, where discord was always raging, and where man preyed upon man.

To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, they were daily entertained with songs, the subject of which

was the happy valley. Their appetites were excited by frequent enumerations of different enjoyments, and revelry and merriment was the business of every hour from the dawn of morning to the close of even.

These methods were generally successful. Few of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds, but passed their lives in the full conviction that they had all within their reach that art or nature could bestow, and pitied those whom fate had excluded from this seat of tranquillity as the sport of chance and the slaves of misery.

ar tif'i cer, one who makes or contrives. | se clu'sion, separation from society.
mas'sy, bulky and heavy.
sub'tle (sut'l), sly; artful.

su per flu'i ty, a greater quantity than is re par a'tion, repair.

needed.

ex'i gen cy, pressing need; crisis. di ver'si fied, having a variety of forms vi cis'si tude, change. or colors; variegated. fe lic'i ty, happiness.

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709–1784) was one of the most noted English writers of the eighteenth century. He compiled a dictionary of the English language, and for some years published a periodical called "The Rambler." He is noted for his precise and dignified style. His life by Boswell is one of the most famous books of its kind. The extract here given is from "Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia."

Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins!
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

-WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

ROBERT BURNS

I LANG1 hae2 thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae ither3 end
Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject theme may gang,*
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,5
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the warld fu' soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an uncoR squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a'8 your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say men are villains a’;

The real, hardened wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked9;

But, och mankind are unco weak,

And little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith1 hourly stare him;
A man may tak' a neebor's 2 part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony;
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection,

But keek3 thro' every other man
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honor;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Not for a train attendant,
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud 5 the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honor grip,
Let that ay be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause,

1 poortith, poverty.

2 neebor, neighbor.

3 keek, look.

4

gear, wealth; goods.

5 haud, hold.

Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev❜n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An atheist's1 laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie2 a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we're tempest driven,
A conscience but a canker,

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor !

Adieu, dear, amiable youth,

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!

May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser;

And may you better reck the rede3

Than ever did th' adviser!

ROBERT BURNS, one of the greatest of Scottish poets, was born in Ayrshire in 1759. His life was far from being commendable. Had he

1 atheist, one who denies that there is a

God.

2 gie, to give.

8 reck the rede, heed the counsel.