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that drove them headlong down the path on the other side of the eminence', and then followed his example. The pedler entered the thicket with a little caution', and avoided, as much as possible', rustling or breaking the branches in his way. There was but time only to shelter his person from view', when a dragoon led up the ascent', and, on reaching the height', he cried aloud

“I saw one of their horses turning the hill this minute.”

“ Drive on-spur forward', my lads'," shouted Mason; “give the Englishman quarter', but cut down the pedler', and make an end of him."

Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard', as he listened in a great tremor to this cry', which was followed by the passage of a dozen horsemen', with a vigor and speed that showed too plainly how little security their over-tired steeds could have afforded them. “Now," said the pedler', rising from his cover to reconnoiter', and standing for a moment in suspense', “ally that we gain is clearl gain ; for', as wē go up', they go down. Let us be stirring."

“ But will they not follow us', and surround the mountain'?” said Henry', rising, and imitating the labored but rapid progress of his companion"; " remember they have foot' as well as horse', and at any rate wē shall starve in the hills'.”

"Fear nothing', captain Wharton',” returned the pedler with confidencè; “this is not the mountain that I would be on, but necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead you where no man will dare to follow. Seè, the sun is already setting behind the tops of the western mountains', and it will be two hours to the rising of the moon. Who', think you', will follow us far', on a November night', among these rocks and precipices'?”

“ But listen'!” exclaimed Henry'; “the dragoons are shouting to each other'—they miss us already.”

“ Come to the point of this rock', and you may see them'," said Harvey', composedly setting himself down to rest.“ Nay', they can see us'-notice, they are pointing up with their fingers. Therè! one has fired his pistol', but the distance is too great for even a musket to carry upwards."

“ They will pursue us',” cried the impatient Henry'; " let us be moving."

They will not think of such a thing',” returned the pedler', picking the chickerberries that grew on the thin soil where he sat', and very deliberately chewing them, leaves and all', to refresh his mouth'. “What progress could they make here, in their boots and spurs', with their long swords', or even pistols' ?

No', no—they may go back and turn out the foôt; but the horsè pass through these defiles', when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembling. Comè, follow mè, captain Wharton'; we have a troublesome march before us', but I will bring you where none will think of venturing this night.”

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountains.

LESSON L X X X V.

ANECDOTE OF DR. CHAUNCY. Dr. Cooper, who was a man of accomplished manners, and fond of society, was able, by the aid of his fine talents, to dispense with some of the severe study that others engaged in. This, however, did not escape the envy and malice of the world", and it was said, in a kind of petulant and absurd exaggeration', that he used to walk to the south end of a Saturday', and if he saw a man riding into town in a black coat, would stop and ask him to preach the next day. Dr. Chauncy was a close student', very absent and very irritablè. On these traits in the character of the two clergymen, a servant of Dr. Chauncy laid a scheme for obtaining a particular object from his master. Scipio went into his master's study one morning to receive some directions', which the doctor having given', resumed his writing', but the servant still remained. The master, looking up a few minutes afterwards, and supposing he had just come in', said', Scipio', what do you want'?” “I want a new coat', massà.” Well, go to Mrs. Chauncy', and tell her to give you one of my old coats';” and he was again absorbed in his studies. The servant remained fixed. After a while, the doctor', turning his eyes that way', saw him again as if for the first time, and said', • What do you want, Scip' ?”.

I want a new coat', massà." “ Well, go to my wifè, and ask her to give you one of my old coats ;” and he fell to writing once

Scipio remained in the same posture. After a few minutes', the doctor looked towards him', and repeated the former question',“ Scipio', what do you want' ?” “I want a new coat', massà.” It now flashed over the doctor's mind, that there was something of repetition in this dialogue. “Why, have I not told you before to ask Mrs. Chauncy to give you one' ? get away":" “ Yes', massà, but I no want a blạck' coat.” “ Not want a biąck' coat! why not ?” Why', massà,~I 'fraid to tell yoù—but I don't want a black coat." " What's the

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reason you don't want a black coat'? tell me directly'.” “O': massà, I don't want a black coat, but I 'fraid to tell

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the reason', you so passionatè.” “ You rascal'! will you tell me the reason'?” “O! massà, I'm sure you be angry!” “If I had my cane here', you villain', I'd break your bones': will you tell

“I 'fraid to tell you, massà ; I know you be angry.” The doctor's impatience was now highly irritated', and Scipio', perceiving by his glance at the tongs' that he might find a sübstitute for the cane, and that he was sufficiently excited', said', “ Well, massà, you make me tell', but I know you be angry'—I 'fraid', massá, if I wear another black coat, Dr. Cooper ask me to preach for him!” This unexpected termination realized the servant's calculation ; his irritated master burst into a laugh", -"Gò, you rascal'

, get my hat and canè, and tell Mrs. Chauncy she may give you a coat of any' color'; a red one if you choose'.” Away went the negro to his mistress“, and the doctor' to tell the story to his friend' Dr. Cooper.

LESSON L X X XVI.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

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Iambic. Epic measure.
Sweet Auburn'! loveliest village of the plain',
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain',
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid',

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. 5 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease',

Seats of my youth, when every sport could pleasé,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green',
Where humble happiness endeared each scene !

How often have I paused on every charm“, 10 The sheltered cot', the cultivated farm',

The never-failing brook', the busy mill';
The decent church', that topt the neighboring hill';
The hawthorn bush', with seats beneath the shade',

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 15 How often have I blest the coming day',

When toil remitting lent its turn to play',
And all the village train, from labor free',
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,

While many a pastime circled in the shadé, 20 The young contending as the old surveyedo;

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round'.
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired'; 25 The dancing pair that simply sought renown'

By holding out', to tire each other down“;
The swain', mistrustless of his smutted face',
While secret laughter tittered round the place";

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of lover;
30 The matron's glancè, that would those looks reprover;

These were thy charms', sweet village'; sports like these,
With sweet succession', taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ;

These were thy charms —But all these charms are fled'. 35 Sweet Auburn’, parent of the blissful hour',

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power'.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds'
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds',

And', many a year elapsed', return to view'
40 Where once the cottage stood’, the hawthorn grew',

Remembrance wakes' with all her busy train',
Swells at my breast', and turns the past to pain'.
In all my wanderings round this world of care',

In all my griefs'—and God has given my share', 45 I still had hopes', my latest hours to crown',

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down';
To husband out life's taper at the close',
And keep the flame from wasting by reposé :

I still had hopes,' (for pride attends us still',)
50 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skills

Around my fire an evening group to draw',
And tell of all I felt', and all I saw';
And, as a hare', which hounds and horns pursue',

Pants to the place from whence at first he flew^,
55 I still had hopes', my long vexations past',
Here to return and die at home at last'.

O blest retirement', friend to life's declinè,
Retreats from carè, that never must be mine',

How blest is he who crowns in shades like these' 60 A youth of labor', with an age of easè !

Who quits a world where strong temptations try',
And', since 'tis hard to combat', learns to fly'!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep',

Explore the mine', or tempt the dangerous deep ; 65 No surly porter stands in guilty state'

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To spurn imploring famine from the gate ·
But on he moves to meet his latter end',
Angels around befriending virtue's friend";

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay', 70 While resignation gently slopes the way';

And', all his prospects brightening to the last',
His heaven commences ere the world be pasto!

LESSON LXXXVII.

CELADON AND AMELIA.

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Iambic. Epic.

YOUNG CELADON'
And his AMELIA were a matchless pair ;
With equal virtue formed', and equal gracé,

The samé ; distinguished by their sex alonè; 5 Hers' the mild lustre of the blooming morn', And his' the radiance of the risen day.

They loved': but such their guileless passion was
As in the dawn of time informed the heart

Of innocencé and undissembling truth.
10 'Twas friendship' heightened by the mutual wish';

Th'enchanting hope', and sympathetic glow',
Beamed from the mutual eyè. Devoting all
To love', each was to each a dearer self";

Supremely happy in th’awakened power 15 Of giving joy. Alonè, amid the shades

Still in harmonious intercourse they lived'
The rural day', and talked the flowing heart',
Or sighed' and looked' unutterable things.

So passed their life', a clear united stream', 20 By care unruffled', till in evil hour'

The tempest caught them on the tender walk,
Heedless how får, and where its mazes strayed
While', with each other blesť, creative lové

Still bade eternal Eden smile around.
25 Presaging instant fate', her bosom heaved

Unwonted sighs', and stealing oft a look'
Of the big gloom', on Celadon her eye
Fell tearful, wetting her disordered cheek'.

In vain assuring love and confidence'
30 In Heaven' repressed her fear'; it grew, and shook'

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