Charity.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels`, and have not charity', I am become as sounding brass', or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gifts of prophecy', and understand all mysteries`, and all knowledge'; and though I have all faith', so that I could remove mountains', and have not charity', I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor', and though I give my body to be burned`, and have not charity', it profiteth me nothing`.

Charity suffereth long, and is kind'; charity envieth' not; charity vaunteth` not itself, is not puffed up'; doth not behave itself unseemly', seeketh not her own', is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil'; rejoiceth not in iniquity', but rejoiceth in the truth'; beareth' all things, believeth' all things', hopeth' all things endureth all things. Charity never faileth`: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail'; whether there be tongues,' they shall cease; whether there be knowledge', it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come', that which is in part' shall be done away'.

Questions.

What, then, was Cæsar's object? Do we select extortioners', to enforce the law of equity'? Do we make choice of profligates', to guard the morals of society'? I will not press the answer. I need not press the answer. The premises of my argument render it unnecessary. What would content you? Talent? No. Enterprise'? No. Courage'? No. Reputation'? No. Virtue'? No. The men whom you would select, should possess, not one', but all of these.

Alas', poor Yorick! I knew him well, Horatio', a fellow of infinite jest', of most excellent fancy'. He hath borne me on his back', a thousand times'; and now', how abhorred in my imagination is this skull! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed', I know not how oft'. your gibes', now? Your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar? Not one', now, to mock your grinning? quite chop-fallen'? Now

Where are

get you to my lady's chamber, and tell' her, if she paint an inch thick, yet to this favor will she come at last.

Hour of Prayer.

CHILD, amid the flowers at play',
While the red light fades away';

Mother', with thine earnest eye',
Ever following silently';
Father', by the breeze at eve'

Call'd thy harvest work to leave';

Pray!

Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee'.

Traveler', in the stranger's land',
Far from thine own household band';
Mourner', haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone';
Captive', in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell';
Sailor', on the darkening sea';
Lift the heart, and bend the knee'.
Warrior', that from battle won',
Breathest now at set of sun';
Woman', o'er the lowly slain',
Weeping on his burial plain';
Ye that triumph', ye that sigh',
Kindred by one holy tie';
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart', and bend the knee'.

Shylock to Antonio.

Seignor Antonio', many a time', and oft',
In the Rialto, you have rated me

About my moneys', and my usances':

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug';

For sufferance' - is the badge of all our tribe'.

You called me' - misbeliever',—cut-throat dog,
And SPIT-upon my Jewish gabardine';
And all for use of that which is my own'.

Well, then', it now' appears you need my help'.

Go to, then', you come to me', and you say',

Shylock', we would have moneys'."

You say so,

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard',

A CUR - can lend three thousand ducats'? or',
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key',
With bated breath', and whispering humbleness',
Say this?

"Fair sir'! you spit on me, on Wednesday last';
You spurned me, such a day'; another time'

You called me — dog': and for these — courtesies, I'll lend you thus much-moneys."

Justice.

Rienzi. This is justice',

Pure justice', not revenge'! Mark well', my lords'!

Pure', equal' justice. Martin Ursini'

Had open trial', is guilty', is condemned',

If ye could range before me all the peers',
Prelates', and potentates' of Christendom,
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee',
And emperors' crouching at my feet, to sue
For this great robber', still I should be blind
As Justice'. But this very day', a wife',
One infant hanging at her breast', and two',
Scarce bigger', first-born twins of misery',
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle rein
To beg her husband's life'; condemned to die'
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi':
And', whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared',
Shaking his crest', and plunging to get free',
There, mid the dangerous coil, unmoved she stood,
Pleading' in piercing words, the very cry

Of nature'! And, when I at last said no'-
For I said no' to her'- she flung herself'

And those poor innocent babes' between the stones
And my hot Arab's hoofs'. We saved them all',
Thank Heaven', we saved them all! but I said no'
To that sad woman mid her shricks'. Ye dare' not
Ask for mercy now!

EDUCATION We consider as consisting in the formation of the character; and a good education, in the preparation of man for usefulness and happiness. It involves the right development, and cultivation, and direction of all his powers, physical, intellectual, and moral. It implies instruction in all the branches of knowledge which are necessary to useful and efficient action in the sphere of the individual. But it must also include the physical training which is to render the body capable of executing the purposes of the soul; the skill which is requisite in order to apply our knowledge and strength to the very best advantage; and, above all, the moral discipline by which the character and direction of our efforts is to be decided. Each of these branches includes an extensive list of particulars; and the means of education comprise all those circumstances and influences by which the human character is formed and modified.

parent, by her looks

In this view, education does not begin with the school; nor does it terminate with the university. It is not confined to the nursery, nor the family, nor the public institution. It begins with the first moment of consciousness. Every being, every object, every event, forms a part of it. The first lessons are given in the arms of the mother. The and movements, and the sun by its varying light, are educating the eye. The songs of the birds, and the whistling of the wind, are cultivating the ear, no less truly than the voice of the mother, or the instrument of music. The air and the temperature of the room are fitting the body to enjoy or to suffer. The food which is given him calls forth his appetite, and forms him

to habits of temperance or sensuality. The clothing which he wears begins to inspire the taste for simplicity, or the love of finery.

In the progress of childhood, the daily and hourly treatment he receives, the conduct he witnesses, and the language he hears, in the family circle, in the company of domestics, in the little society of his school-fellows and playmates, all exert an influence upon him, no less decided, and often more powerful, than the instructions of the school, or the exhortations of the parent, or the worship of the church; and all, therefore, make an essential part of his education. As he advances into youth and manhood, the number of educators who thus surround him, and the variety of influences to which he is exposed, are greatly increased. Society at length begins to act upon him, and he feels the force of public opinion. The church presents its weekly school of instruction and discipline, which may exert the most efficient and salutary influence; and the state employs its power in directing and restraining, and thus educating the man, by means of laws and institutions, whose operation ter minates only in the grave.

But does education terminate here? Nature, reason, cast no light upon the "valley of the shadow of death." But revelation points us to a higher world, and enables us to discern, through, the cloud which rests upon the grave, that state, in which those who have improved the privileges already enjoyed on earth, shall be allowed higher and nobler means of advancement. There, the immediate perception of all that is excellent and glorious in the Creator, and in the most exalted of the rational creation, shall take the place of imperfect description. There, that knowledge, which is here the result of painful study, will be seen as intuitively as the visible objects which now surround us; and there, the mind will no longer have to struggle with those gross defects, that painful weakness of its material organs, which now obscure its perceptions, and arrest and retard its progress, in truth and excellence.

But such a state, such progress, it is now incapable even of conceiving; and we can only rejoice in the distant glimmerings of that light whose full glory, like the beams of some of those orbs whose remoteness reduces them to stars, would overpower our minds. Nor can we suppose any termination to this glo