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age, he was admitted into the order before he had reached that age.
On the day appointed for that purpose, all the knights and nobles at that time in the city where the solemnity was ll to be performed, with the bishops and clergy, each covered with the appropriate vestments of his order, the knight in his coat-of-arms, and the bishop in his stole, conducted the aspirant to the principal church of the place. There, after the high mass had been chanted, the novice approached the altar and presented the sword to the bishop or priest, who, taking it from his hand, blessed and consecrated it to the service of religion and virtue.
It often happened that the bishop himself then solemnly warned the youth of the difficulties and requisites of the or12 der to which he aspired. “He who seeks to be a knight,"
said the bishop of Valenciennes to the young count of Ostrevant on one of these occasions, “ he who wishes to be a knight should have great qualities. He must be of noble birth, liberal in gifts, high in courage, strong in danger, secret in council, patient in difficulties; powerful against enemies, prudent in his deeds. He must also swear to observe the following rules : To undertake nothing without having heard mass fasting; to spare neither his blood nor his life
in defence of the Catholic faith ; to give aid to all widows 13 and orphans; to undertake no war without just cause; ti
favor no injustice, but to protect the innocent and oppressed; to be humble in all things; to seek the welfare of those placed under him ; never to violate the rights of his sovereign, and to live irreprehensibly before God and man.”
The bishop, then taking his joined hands in his own, placed them on the missal, and received his oath to follow. the statutes laid down to hiin, after which, his father advancing, dubbed him a knight.
At other times it occurred, that when the sword had been 14 blessed. the novice carried it to the knight who was to be his godfather in Chivalry, and kneeling before him, plighted his vow to him. After this, the other knights, and often the ladies present, advanced, and completely armed the youth, sometimes beginning with one piece of the armor, sometimes another.
After having been armed, the novice still remained upon his knees before his. godfather in arms, who, then, rising
from his seat, bestowed upon him the accoluir, ?s i s called, which consisted generally of three blows of the 15 naked sword upon the neck or shoulder. Sometimes it was' performed by a blow given with the palm of the hand upon the cheek of the novice, which was always accompanied by some words, signifying that the ceremony was complete, and the squire had now become a knight.
The words which accompanied the accolade were generally, when the kings of France bestowed the honor, “In the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I make thee knight; be loyal, bold, and true.”
The World.—ANONYMOUS. 1 How beautiful the world is! The green earth covered with flowers-the trees laden with rich blossoms—the blue sky, and the bright water, and the golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful, and He who made it must be beautiful.
It is a happy world. Hark! how the merry birds singand the young lambs—see! how they gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and the brooks ripple in gladness. Yon eagle !-Ah! how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens—the bird of liberty, the bird of America.
3 It is happy-I see it and hear it all about me-nay, I feel it-here, in the glow, the eloquent glow of my own heart. He who made it must be happy. . It is a great world. Look off to the mighty ocean when
the storm is upon it;--10 the huge mountain, when the Thunder and the lightnings play over it; to the vast forestthe interminable waste ;-the sun, the moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent world,—and He who made it,Oh, he is the perfection of all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all gloriousness!
Oh how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Prince Edward alone in Prison. Doth the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, And ruddy vapors, and deep glowing flames, And softly varied shádes, look gloriously? Do the green woods dance to the wind ? The lákes Cast up their sparkling waters to the light? Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells, Send winding up to heav'n their curling smoke On the sost morning aír ? Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound In antic happiness ; and mazy birds Wing the mid-air in lightly-skimming bands ?--Ay, all this is ;-měn do behold all this; The poorest man. E’en in the lonely vàult, My dark and narrow world, oft I do hear The crowing of the cock so near my walls, And sadly think how small a space divides me .. From all this fair creation.--Joanna Baillie.
Sorrow for the Dead.-W. IRVING. I The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal-every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open-this aflliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend 2 over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is
closing upon the remains of her he most loved; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ?-No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection—when the sudden anguish and the convulsive
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is 3 softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness—who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gioom; yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave!
the grave!—It buries every error-covers every defecta extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom
spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him?
But the grave of those we loved - what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments layished upon us almost unheeded in the
5 daily intercourse of intimacy :—there it is, that we dwell
upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs —its noiseless attendance-its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love—the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh, how thrilling pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence. The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection.
Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There 6 settle the account with thy conscience for every past ben
efit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition !
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent–if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth—if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, 7 or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee--if
thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy seet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear—more deep, more bitter,because unheard and unavailing.
The Giraffe and Lion.—PRINGLE. The giraffe or camelopard, inhabits some parts of the interior of Africă. It is a quadruped, resembling in several points of external form, the horse: though he has horns, cleft hoofs, and is a ruminating animal. His principal food is the leaves of a particular kind of tree, which by his great height, and extreme length of neck, he plucks from branches sixteen or eighteen feet high. The manner in which the "king of the forest” makes this magnificent animal his prey, is described in the following poetical sketch.] .
1 Wouldst thou view the lion's den?
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