That he suffers, is a light thing. That he has brought on himself this suffering, by the voluntary extinction of his reason, that is the terrible thought, the intolerable curse.

Intemperance is to be pitied and abhorred for its own sake, much more than for its outward consequences. These owe their chief bitterness to their criminal source. We speak of the miseries which the drunkard carries to his family. But take away his own brutality, and how lightened would be these miseries. We talk of his wife and children in rags. Let the rags continue; but suppose them to be the effects of an innocent cause. Suppose his wife and children bound to him by a strong love, which a life of labor for their support and of unwearied kindness has awakened; suppose them to know that his toils for their welfare had broken down his frame; suppose him able to say, 'We are poor in this world's goods, but rich in affection and religious trust. I am going from you; but I leave you to the Father of the fatherless, and to the widow's God.' Suppose this, and how changed these rags! How changed the cold, naked room! The heart's warmth can do much to withstand the winter's cold; and there is hope, there is honor, in this virtuous indigence.

What breaks the heart of the drunkard's wife? It is not that he is poor, but that he is a drunkard. Instead of that bloated face, now distorted with passion, now robbed of every gleam of intelligence, if the wife could look on an affectionate countenance, which had, for years, been the interpreter of a well-principled mind and faithful heart, what an overwhelming load would be lifted from her! It is a husband, whose touch is polluting, whose infirmities are the witness of his guilt, who has blighted all her hopes, who has proved false to the vow which made her his: it is such a husband who makes home a hell, not one whom toil and disease and Providence have cast on the care of wife and children.

-

We look too much at the consequences of vice,- too little at the vice itself. It is vice, which is the chief weight of what we call its consequence, —vice, which is the bitterness in the up of human woe.

17

EXERCISE CI

UNIVERSAL FREEDOM.-Henry Ware, Fr

Oppression shall not always reign :
There comes a brighter day,
When freedom, burst from every chain,
Shall have triumphant way.
Then right shall over might prevail;
And truth, like hero armed in mail,
The hosts of tyrant wrong assail,
And hold eternal sway.

Even now, that glorious day draws near
Its coming is not far;

In earth and heaven its signs appear,
We see its morning star;

Its dawn has flushed the eastern sky,
The western hills reflect it high,
The southern clouds before it fly; -
Hurra, hurra, hurra!

It flashes on the Indian isles,

So long to bondage given;

Their faded plains are decked in smiles,
Their blood-stained fetters riven.
Eight hundred thousand newly free,
Pour out their songs of jubilee,
That shake the globe from sea to sea,
As with a shout from heaven.

That shout, which every bosom thrills,
Has crossed the wondering main,
It rings in thunder o'er our hills,
And rolls o'er every plain.
The waves reply on every shore,
Old Fanueil echoes to the roar,

And rocks' as it ne'er rocked before,
And ne'er shall rock again.

What voice shall bid the progress stay,

Of truth's victorious car?

What arm arrest the growing day,

Or quench the solar star?

What dastard soul, though stout and strong,
Shall dare bring back the ancient wrong,
Or slavery's guilty night prolong,
And freedom's morning bar?

The hour of triumph comes apace,
The fated, promised hour,
When earth upon a ransomed race,
Her beauteous gifts shall shower.
Ring, Liberty, thy glorious bell,
Bid high the sacred banner swell,
Let trump on trump the triumph tell,
Of heaven's avenging power.

The day has come, the hour draws nigh,
We hear the coming car;

Send forth the glad, exulting cry,

Hurra, hurra, hurra!

From every hill, by every sea,

In shouts proclaim the great decree,
'All chains are burst, all men are free!'
Hurra, hurra, hurra!

See RULE POR POETIC DECLAMATION, following Exercise XCII, and RULE FOR THE READING OF EXCLAMATIONS, followir g Exercise LXXVI.

EXERCISE CII.

THE MEN OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.— Chas. Sprague.

Of the men, who battled for independence, we are to remember that destruction awaited defeat. They were 'rebels,' obnoxious to the fate of 'rebels.' They were tearing asunder the ties of loyalty, and hazarding all the sweet endearments of social and domestic life. They were unfriended, weak, and wanting. Going thus forth, against a powerful and vindictive foe, what could they dare to hope? what had they not to dread? They could not tell, but that vengeance would hunt them down, and infamy hang its black escutel.con over their graves.

They did not know that the angel of the Lord would go forth with them, and smite the invaders of their sanctuary. They did not know that generation after generation would, on this day,* rise up and call them blessed; that the sleeping quarry would leap forth to pay them voiceless homage; that their names would be handed down, from father to son, the penman's theme, and the poet's inspiration; challenging, through countless years, the jubilant praises of an emancipated people, and the plaudits of an admiring world.

No; they knew, only, that the arm, which should protect, was oppressing them, and they shook it off; and that the chalice presented to their lips was a poisoned one, and they dashed it away. They knew, only, that a rod was stretched over them for their audacity; and beneath this they vowed never to bend, while a single pulse could beat the alarum to ' rebellion.' That rod must be broken, or they must bleed! And it was broken!

Led on by their Washington, the heroes went forth. Clothed in the panoply of a righteous cause, they went forth boldly. Guarded by a good Providences they went forth triumphantly. They labored, that we might find rest; they fought, that we might enjoy peace; they conquered, that we might inherit FREEDOM.

The anniversary of Independence.

EXERCISE CIII.

'RUNAWAY' POND.- Anon.

This is the name of a place in the town of Glover, Orleans county, Vermont, not where there is now a pond, but from which, as the name intimates, a pond once ran away. The facts, in regard to this spot, were published in 1810. There was a sheet of water, about three miles in length, and half a mile in breadth, from which issued a small stream, running to the south, and mingling, in its course, with the waters that flow into the Connecticut River.

There was another small stream, taking its rise a little to the north and west of this pond, the waters of which were discharged to the north, falling into Barton River, and finally finding their way through Lake Memphremagog, into the St. Lawrence.

On this stream there was a mill; and the owner having viewed the make of the ground to the north end or head of the pond, and finding its elevation so small as to oppose but a trifling obstacle to its running in that direction, conceived the idea of turning its course to the north, so as to aid in the operations of his mill.

On the 4th of July, accordingly, himself and a number of others, went with spades and shovels, and commenced digging. They very soon found, that, a few inches from the surface, there was nothing but quicksand; and the moment the water began to run in that direction, this gave way very rapidly, cutting a channel; and the whole water of the pond soon appeared to rush to that point. The banks of the new stream, caving in, were swept on by the flood; so that the party were only able to escape with their lives.

The owner of the mill seeing, at once, that there might be more water than he desired, and that his mill might be in danger, very judiciously made a rapid movement in advance of the water, and arrived just in time to apprize his wife of her danger, and enable her to escape from the mill, which she was attending in her husband's absence.

As the flood moved onward, it bore down every thing that opposed its progress; taking along trees, earth, and rocks; and in narrow places in the valley, the moving mass would rise often to the height of fifty or sixty feet, and again