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tian's death! What art thou, but a gate of life, a portal of heaven, the threshold of eternity!- Dewey.
CXLIX. — ADAM AND ORLANDO.
Orl. What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food!
Adam. But do not so; I have five hundred cro*4 m€.
Ori. 0, good old man! how well in thee appears
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ;
Anda And you be Wh, all the a And He that I Found out the re If He, which is ti But judge you as And mercy then y Like man new ma
Ang. Be you
CL. — A SISTER PLEADS FOR A BROTHER'S LIFE.
Isabella. I am a woful suitor to your honor, Please but your honor hear me.
Angelo. Well; what's your suit?
Isab. There is a vice, that most I do abhor,
Ang. Well; the matter?
Isab. I have a brother is condemned to die :
Ang Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it!
Isab. O just, but severe law !
Ang. Maiden, no remedy.
Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,
Ang. I will not do 't.
Isab. But might you do 't, and do the world no wrong
Ang. He's sentenced ; 't is too late.
Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again. Well, believe this: No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,141 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one-half so good a grace As mercy does. If he had been as you, And you as he, you would have slipt like him ; But he, like you, would not have been so stern.
Ang. Pray you, begone.
Isab. I would to Heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel should it then be thus?
And so in progress
Isab. Yet show
Isab. So you m
No! I would tell what 't were to be a judge,
Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
Isat Alas! alas !
Ang. Be you content, fair maid;
Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him
Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept : Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first man that did the edict infringe Had answered for his deed : now, 't is awake; Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, El that shows what future evils (Either now, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatched and born), Are now to have no successiveEl degrees, But, where they live, to end.
Isab. Yet show some pity!
Ang. I show it most of all when I show justice ;
Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence, --
Drest in a little brief authority,
Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me?
Isab. Because authority, though it err like others,
Ang. [Aside.]El She speaks, and 't is
Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back.
Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you,
Ang. Well ; come to me
Isab. Heaven keep your honor safe !
CLI. — THE MIND ITS OWN EDUCATOR. 1. KNOWLEDGE and virtue, or, in other words, intellectual and moral improvement, are mainly the mind's own work. The ordinary processes of direct instruction are, at best, but means, facilities, and aids, — of immense importance, it is true, but which pres'appose in the mind to which they are applied an active, self moving coöperation. None can carry us up the hill of learning It must be done, if done, by the strain upon our own sinews by the wrenching of our own muscles, by the indomi. table resolution of our own wills. Without this effort on our parts, all the means of instruction which this and all other ages have devised are vain, worse than vain.
2. There is a vague notion widely prevalent that schools and ampler seminaries are able, by a power inherent in themselves, to fill the mind with learning; or that it is to be received inertly, like the influences of the atmosphere, by a mere residence at the places of instruction. But this is a sad mistake. Something, in this way, doubtless, may be effected. Something may be thus insensibly imbibed. A young person cannot pass his time, for years, in scenes like these, without catching something from the inspiration of the place. Intercourse, conversation, sympathy with his companions, will, without much voluntary effort on his part, convey some information, and mould, in some degree, the habits of his mind. But this, admitting it in its full extent, amounts to but very little. It is, moreover, too vague to be of any practical value.
3. The truth, after all, is, that the most elaborate and mani. fold apparātus of instruction can impart nothing of importance to the passive and inert mind. It is almost as unavailing as the warmth and light of the sun, and all the sweet influences of the heavens, shed upon the desert sands. “The schoolmaster," we are told by one, who, be it observed, is himself a prodigy of selfeducation, “ the schoolmaster is abroad.” The word has been caught up by the nations as prophetical of mighty changes. But the schoolmaster is abroad to little purpose, unless his pupils stand ready in their places to receive him with open and active minds, and to labor with him for their own benefit.
4. If all the means of education which are scattered over the world, and if all the philosophers and teachers of ancient and modern times, were to be collected together, and made to bring their combined efforts to bear upon an individual, all they could do would be to afford the opportunity of improvement. They could not give him a single valuable thought independently of his own exertion. All that could be accomplished must still be done within the little compass of his own mind; and they could not approach this by a hair's breadth nearer than access was made for them by his own coöperation. Nothing short of a miracle can teach a man anything independently of this. All that he learns is effected by self-discipline, and self-discipline is the mind's own work. We all are, under God, intellectually, the makers of ourselves.
5. Virtue, religion, as well as knowledge, must also be mainly the mind's own work. Here, too, external means are useless, without the earnest coöperation of the individual. The usual