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will stand by what he shall say." To this the others agreed, and the Brahmin called out, " O, stranger, what dost thou call this beast ?" — " Surely, O, Brahmin," said the knave, "it is a fine sheep."
5. Then the Brahmin said, "Surely the gods have taken away my senses;" and he asked pardon of him who carried the dog, and bought it for a measure of rice and a pot of ghee,"2 and offered it up to the gods, who, being wroth at this unclean sacri fice, smote him with a sore disease in all his joints.38
6. Thus, or nearly thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanscrit" iEsop." The moral, like the moral of every fable" that is worth the telling, lies on the surface. The writer evidently means to caution us against the practices of puffers, — a class of people who have more than once talked the public into the most absurd errors.
7. It is amusing to think over the history of most of the publications which have had a run during the last few years. The publisher is often the publisher of some periodical work. In this periodical work the first flourish of trumpets is sounded. The peal is then echoed and reechoed by all the other periodical works over which the publisher, or the author, or the author's coterie,10 may have any influence.
8. The newspapers are for a fortnight filled with puffs of all the various kinds which Sheridan has recounted, — direct, oblique, and collusive. Sometimes the praise is laid on thick, foi simple-minded people. "Pathetic," "sublime," "splendid," 'graceful, brilliant wit," " exquisite humor,"M and other phrases equally flattering, fall in a shower as thick and as sweet as the sugar-plums at a Roman carnival."
9. Sometimes greater art is used. A sinecure" has been offered to the writer if he would suppress his work, or if he would even soften down a few of his incom'parable portraits. A distinguished military and political character has challenged the inimitable satirist of the vices of the great; and the puffer is glad to learn that the parties have been bound over to keep the peace.
10. Sometimes it is thought expedient that the puffer should put on a grave face, and utter his panegyr'ic" in the form of admonition!" Such attacks on private character cannot be too much condemned. Even the exuberant wit of our author, and the irresistible power of his withering sarcasm, are no excuse for that utter disregard which he manifests for the feelings of others."
11. That people who live by personal slander should practise these arts is not surprising. Those who stoop to write calumnious books may well stoop to puff them ; — aDd that the basest of all trades should be carried on in the basest of all manners, is quite proper, and as it should be. But how any man who hat, the lettst self-respect, the least regard for his own personal dignity, can condescend to persecute the public with this rag-fair importunity, we do not understand.
12. Extreme poverty may, indeed, in some degree, be an excuse for employing these shifts, as it may be au excuse for stealing a leg of mutton. But we really think that a man of spirit and delic icy would quite as soon satisfy his wants in the one way as in the other. Iiacallav.
LXXII. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MArD.
1. When Israel," of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
Returned the fiery column's glow.
2. Then rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel'i1 answered keen;
"With priest's and warrior's voice between.
Forsaken Israel wanders lone:
And Thou hast left them to their own.
3 But, — present still, though now unseen ! —
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
To temper the deceitful ray.
In shade and storm the frequent night,
A burning and a shining light!
4. Our harps we left by BabelV streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's" scorn;
And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn *
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
Are mine accepted sacrifice. Scott.
LXXIII. — THE BRAVE MAN.
1. Loun let the Brave Man's praises swell
Of lofty soul and spirit strong,
2. The thaw-wind came from the southern sea,
The scattered clouds fled far aloof,
As flies the flock before the wolf;
3. The snow-drifts melt, till the mountain calls
And high roll its billows, as in their track
4. On pillars stout, and arches wide,
There dwelleth the toll-man, with babes and wife ,
5. Near and more near the wild waves urge;
And he gazed on the waves in their gathering might "All-merciful God! to our sins be good! We are lost! we are lost! The flood! the flood!"
ri. Iligh rolled the waves! In headlong track
7. High heaves the flood-wreck, — block on block
The sturdy pillars feel the shock;
On either arch the surges break,
On either side the arches shake.
8. Upon the river's farther strand
• . 1 i - 1 !- A,
A trembling crowd of gazers stand;
9. When shall the Brave Man's praises swell
0! speed, for the terrible death draws near;
O, Brave Man! O, Brave Man! arise, appear'
10. Quick gallops up, with headlong speed, A noble Count on noble steed!
And, lo! on high his fingers hold A purse well stored with shining gold. "Two hundred pistoles'" for the man who shall s Yon perisliing wretch from the yawning wave!"
11. Who is the Brave Man, say, my song: Shall to the Count thy meed belong! Though, Heaven be praised, right hrave he br
O, Brave Man! O, Brave Man! arise, appear!
12. And ever higher swell the waves,
O, Brave Man! Brave Man! haste, appear!
13. Again,27 again before their eyes,
High holds the Count the glittering prize;
14. But who amid the crowd is seen,
In form and feature tall and grave!
15. Into a skiff he boldly sprang;
He braved the storm that round him rang:
lie called aloud on God's great name,
And backward a deliverer came.
16. The river round him boiled and surged;
So fierce rolled the river, that scarce the last
17. Who is the Brave Man? Say, my song,
But't was, perchance, the prize to win.
18. Out spake the Count, " Right boldly done!
And truly the Count right noble is;
19. "Poor though I be, thy hand withhold;
Yon hapless man is ruined now;
Great Count, on him thy gift bestow.''
20. Then loudly let his praises swell
He asks not gold, he asks but song!
FROM THE GERMAN OF BUKQIB,
LXXIV. — A PUPIL'S TRIBUTE TO HIS TEACHER.
x. John Henderson was born at Limerick, in Ireland, but came to England20 early in life with his parents. From the age of three years he discovered the pres'ages of a great mind. Without retracing the steps of his progression, a general idea may ba formed of them from the circumstance of his haying professumaily