serene, midsummer's night-the sky was without a cloud-the winds were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the day; the pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east. Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn. EDWARD EVERETT. 3. The circumstances now clearly in evidence spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet; the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, through the window already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges without noise; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room is uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper is turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, show him where to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he plies the dagger, tho it is obvious that life has been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard. To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. "The White Murder Case." WEBSTER. 4. From the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a dull monotonous duty could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it. Tink, tink, tink-clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the street's harsher noises, as tho it said, “I don't care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy." Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds-tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. It was a perfect embodiment of the still, small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind; foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbors who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key. CHARLES DICKENS. 5. The little square that surrounds it is deplorably narrow, and you flatten your back against the opposite houses in the vain attempt to stand off and survey the towers. The proper way to look at them would be to go up in a balloon and hang poised, face to face with them, in the blue air. There is, however, perhaps an advantage in being forced to stand so directly under them, for this position gives you an overwhelming impression of their height. I have seen, I suppose, churches as beautiful as this one, but I do not remember ever to have been so fascinated by superpositions and vertical effects. 7. Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z! A monster of iron, steel and brass, standing on the slim iron rails which shoot away from the station for half a mile and then lose themselves in a green forest. Puff-puff! The driving wheels slowly turn, the monster breathes great clouds of steam and seems anxious for the race. A grizzly-haired engineer looks down from the cab window, while his fireman pulls back the iron door and heaves in more wood, more breath and muscle for the grim giant of the track. The fire roars and crackles the steam hisses and growls; every breath is drawn as fiercely as if the giant was burning to revenge an insult. Up-up-up! The pointer on the steam-gauge moves faster than the minute-hand on a clock. The breathing becomes louder, -the hiss rises to a scream, the iron rails tremble and quiver. "Climb up!" It is going to be a race against time and the telegraph. The engineer rose up, I looked ahead, glanced at the dial, and as his fingers clasped the throttle he asked the station-agent: "Are you sure that the track is clear?" "All clear!" was the answer. The throttle feels the pull, the giant utters a fierce scream, and we are off, I on the fireman's seat, the fireman on the wood. The rails slide under us slowly-faster, and the giant screams again and dashes into the forest. This isn't fast. The telegraph poles dance past as if not over thirty feet apart, and the board fence seems to rise from the ground, but it's only thirty-five miles an hour. "Wood!" The engineer takes his eyes off the track and turns just long enough to speak the word to his fireman. The iron door swings back, and there is an awful rush and roar of flame. The firebox appears full, but stick after stick is dropped into the roaring pit until a quarter of a cord has disappeared. "This is forty miles an hour!" shouts the fireman in my ear as he rubs the moisture from his heated face. Yes, this is faster. The fence posts seem to leap from the ground as we dash along, and the telegraph poles bend and nod to us. A house-a field—a farm-we get but one glance. A dozen houses a hundred faces-that was a station. Houses-faces-a yell! That was another station. We made the last five miles in six minutes. Like a bird-like an arrow-like a bullet almost, we speed forward. Scream! Hiss! Roar! Shake-quiver-bound! Now a mile a minute! Fences? No-only a black line, hardly larger than my pencil! Trees? No-only one tree, all merged into one single tree, which was out of sight in a flash. Fields? Yes-one broad field, broken for an instant by a highway,—a gray thread lying on the ground! It is terrible! If we should leave the rails! If-but don't think of it! Hold fast! Eight miles in eight minutes, not a second more or less! Four and a half miles to go, four minutes to make it! We must run a mile every fifty-three seconds. Scream! Sway! Tremble! We are making time, but this is awful, this roar, this oscillation! One mile! Two miles! I dare not open my eyes! Three miles! Can I ever hear again? Will I ever get this deafening roar out of my ears? Will the seconds ever go by? Scream! The engineer shuts off steam, the fireman hurrahs. I open my eyes—we are at the station! The lightning express is not two seconds away! "I told you!" says the engineer, "and didn't I do it?" He did, but he carried three lives in the palm of the hand that grasped the throttle. "As the Pigeon Flies." C. B. LEWIS. 8. Observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene of plains unclothed and brown; of vegetables burned up and extinguished; of villages depopulated and in ruins; of temples unroofed and perishing; of reservoirs broken down and dry-he would naturally inquire, what war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country? SHERIDAN. CONCENTRATION The practise of being interested is recommended as the best means of developing concentration. We are most interested in those subjects that give us pleasure, arouse our expectation, or possess some degree of familiarity. To be able to focus the attention upon a single subject and single objects belonging to it, is a rare accomplishment and of great advantage to a public speaker. It can be acquired only through long and patient study and exercise. No great mental achievement is possible without this power of continued attention. There is an inseparable connection be tween attention and memory, it being impossible to develop one without the other. |