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than, though as hard as a pine knot, and as tough as leather, could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and his axe, he put himself in a boat, and paddled over the mill-pond to some new land, to which the squire pretended some sort of claim, intending to settle there, and build a meeting-house without a steeple, as soon as he grew rich enough. When he got over, Jonathan found that the land was quite in a state of nature, covered with wood, and inhabited by nobody but wild beasts. But, being a • lad of metal, he took his axe on one shoulder, and his gun on the other, marched into the thickest of the wood, and, clearing a place, built a log hut. Pursuing his labors, and handling his axe like a notable woodman, he, in a few years, cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen good farms ; and building himself a fine frame-house, about half finished, began to be quite snug and comfortable.

But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and, besides, was in great want of money, on account of his having lately to pay swinging damages for assaulting his neighbors, and breaking their heads — the squire, I say, finding Jonathan was getting well to do in the world, began to be very much troubled about his welfare ; so he demanded that Jonathan should pay him a good rent for the land which he had cleared and made good for something. He trumped up I know not what claim against him, and under different pretences managed to pocket all Jonathan's honest gains : in fact, the poor lad had not a shilling left for holiday occasions; and, had it not been for the filial respect he felt for the old man, he would certainly have refused to submit to such impositions.

But, for all this, in a little time, Jonathan grew up to be very large of his age, and became a tall, stout, double-jointed, broadfooted cub of a fellow, awkward in his gait, and simple in his appearance, but showing a lively, shrewd look, and having the promise of great strength, when he should get his full growth. He was rather an odd-looking chap, in truth, and had many queer ways; but everybody that had seen John Bull saw a great likeness between them, and swore he was John's own boy, and a true chip of the old block. Like the old squire, he was apt to be blustering and saucy; but in the main was a peaceable sort of

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careless fellow, that would quarrel with nobody, if you would only let him alone. He always wore a linsey-woolsey coat, the sleeves of which were so short that his hand and wrist came out beyond them, looking like a shoulder of mutton; all which was in consequence of his growing so fast that he out-grew his clothes.

While Jonathan was out-growing his strength in this way, Bull kept on picking his pockets of every penny he could scrape together; till, at last, one day, when the squire was even more than usually pressing in his demands, which he accompanied with threats, Jonathan started up, in a furious passion, and threw the TEA-KETTLE at the old man's head. The choleric Bull was hereupon exceedingly enraged, and, after calling the poor lad an undutiful, ungrateful, rebellious rascal, seized him by the collar, and forthwith a furious scuffle ensued. This lasted a long time; for the squire, though in years, was a capital boxer, and of most excellent bottom. At last, however, Jonathan got him under, and before he would let him up, made him sign a paper, giving up all claim to the farms, and acknowledging the fee simple to be in Jonathan forever.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 1779. 1843. . Allston was born in South Carolina, passed his boyhood in Newport, R. I., and, was educated at Harvard College. He was nearly connected by marriage with Dr. Channing and the poet Dana. At the age of twenty-two, he went abroad, for the purpose of improving himself in the art of painting. He spent a good deal of time in England, Paris and Italy.' In Rome, he became acquainted with Thorwaldsen and Coleridge, to the latter of whom, he said, he owed more intellectually than to any other man. He wrote a few poems, and a beautiful story, entitled Monaldi. Allston's great distinction is as a painter. The Dead Man raised by Elijah's Bones, and Belshazzar's Feast, are the largest of his paintings. Rosalie, which the following lines illustrate, was, by many, considered the most beautiful of his large collection exhibited in Boston a few years since.

ROSALIE.
O POUR upon my soul again

That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain;

Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs,

And dropped them from the skies.

No— never came from aught below

This melody of woe,
That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before ; that with it brings
This nameless light — if light it be —

That veils the world I see.

For all I see around me wears

The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath,
Can mould a sadness like to this —

So like angelic bliss.

So, at that dreamy hour of day,

When the last, lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden revery
First fell the strain of him who stole

In music to her soul.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 1780—1842. . Dr. Channing was born in Newport, R. I., and educated at Harvard College, where he received the highest honors of his class. He chose theology for his profession, and became pastor of the Federal-street Church, in Boston, which connection he retained as long as he lived. The personal appearance of Dr. Channing was very attractive: He was an ardent lover of Nature, a devout worshipper of the God of Nature; his heart was permeated with love to his kind, and “he proposed to himself, as the mission of his life, the elevation of men to his own kindness, serenity and dignity, and the bringing of them into the same converse with nature and God.” He was eloquent as a preacher, beloved as a companion and friend. With Allston and Dana, he was intimately connected, from childhood. His Sermons, Reviews and Essays, are before the public, in six or eight volumes ; and for a high moral treat, in a knowledge of the excellence and loveliness of his character, the reader is referred to his Life, by his nephew, Wm. H. Channing.

(From an Address on Temperance.]

DANCING. DANCING is an amusement which has been discouraged in our country by many of the best people, and not without reason. Dancing is associated, in their minds, with balls ; and this is one of the worst forms of social pleasure. The time consumed in preparation for a ball, the waste of thought upon it, the extravagance of dress, the late hours, the exhaustion of strength, the exposure of health, and the languor of the succeeding day,these, and other evils connected with this amusement, are strong reasons for banishing it from the community. But dancing ought not therefore to be proscribed. On the contrary, balls should be discouraged for this among other reasons, that dancing, instead of being a rare pleasure, requiring elaborate preparation, may become an every-day amusement, and may mix with our common intercourse. This exercise is among the most healthful. The body, as well as the mind, feels its gladdening influence. No amusement seems more to have a foundation in our nature. The animation of youth overflows spontaneously in harmonious movements. The true idea of dancing entitles it to favor. Its end is to realize perfect grace in motion; and who does not know that a sense of the graceful is one of the highest faculties of our nature ?

It is to be desired that dancing should become too common among us to be made the object of special preparation, as in the ball; that members of the same family, when confined by unfavorable weather, should recur to it for exercise and exhilaration; that branches of the same family should enliven in this way their occasional meetings; that it should fill up an hour in all the assemblages for relaxation in which the young form a part. It is to be desired that this accomplishment should be extended to the laboring classes of society, not only as an innocent pleasure, but as a means of improving the manners.

[From "Self Culture."]

THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. Beauty is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of the spring. It waves in the branches of the trees, and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone.

And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple; and those men who are alive to it cannot lift their eyes without feel. ing themselves encompassed with it on every side. Now, this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship; and that I were to learn that neither man, woman nor child, ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, — how should I feel their privation! how should I want to open their eyes, and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions and moral expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature; but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature ! The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged, if not linked with beauty; and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul, when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now, no man receives the true culture

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