They called upon the king, in tones not to be mistaken, to go to Paris; and they called for the queen, who had but just escaped from their daggers, to come out upon the balcony.

The king, after a short consultation with his ministers, announced his intention to set out for the capital; but La Fayette was afraid to trust the queen in the midst of the bloodthirsty multitude. He went to her, therefore, with respectful hesitation, and asked her, if it were her purpose to accompany the king to Paris. "Yes," she replied, "although I am aware of the danger." "Are you positively determined?" "Yes, sir.” "Condescend, then, to go out upon the balcony, and suffer me to attend you.' "Without the king?"-she replied, hesitating-"have you observed the threats?" "Yes, madam, I have; but

dare to trust me.

It was a mo

He led her out upon the balcony. ment of great responsibility, and great delicacy; but nothing, he felt assured, could be so dangerous as to permit her to set out for Paris, surrounded by that multitude, unless its feelings could be changed. The agitation, the tumult, the cries of the crowd, rendered it impossible that his voice should be heard. It was necessary therefore, to address himself to the eye; and, turning towards the queen, with that admirable presence of mind which never yet forsook him, and with that mingled grace and dignity, which were the peculiar inheritance of the ancient court of France, he simply kissed her hand, before the vast multitude.

An instant of silent astonishment followed; but the whole was immediately interpreted, and the air was rent with cries of "long live the queen!" "long live the general!" from the same fickle and cruel populace that, only two hours before, had imbrued their hands in the blood of the guards who defended the life of this same queen.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVENTH.

The Grumbling Clown.

Beneath an oak, a rustic clown
Lay lounging in the shade;
Complaining loud of fortune's gifts;
And called her "partial jade."

The works of Providence were wrong,
And bad was all in sight;

He knew some things were wrong

And he could set them right.

contrived,

"For instance,” cried the grumbling churl,
"Observe this sturdy tree;
Remark the little things it bears,
And what disparity!

"Again, observe yon pumpkins grow,

And yet their stalk so smail;

Unable to support their fruit,

So bulky are they all.

"Now I, if I had power to do't

Would alter thus the case;

That this large tree should pumpkins bear,

And acorns take their place.'

He spoke, and, rising on his feet,
Straight from the tree fell down
An acorn of the smallest size,
And pitched upon his crown.

Now," says the traveller, who had heard
The whole the clown had said,

'Suppose this tree had pumpkins borne
What would have saved thy head?"

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHTH

The inexorable Creditor.

The following affecting narrative of the cruelty of a creditor towards an unfortunate debtor, is to be found among the notes to a volume of American poetry, lately published at Philadelphia, by Mr. Woodworth. "Some years since, a young man, by the name of Brown, was cast into the prison of this city for debt. His manners were very interesting. His fine dark eyes beamed so much intelligence, his lively countenance expressed so much ingenuousness, that I was induced, contrary to my usual rule, to seek his acquaintance. Companions in misery soon become attached to each other.

"Brown was informed that one of his creditors would not consent to his discharge; that he had abused him very much, (as is usual in such cases), and made a solemn oath to keep him in jail "till he rotted!" I watched Brown's countenance, when he received this information; and whether it was fancy or not, I cannot say, but I thought I saw the cheering spirit of hope in that moment desert him for ever.

"Nothing gave Brown pleasure but the daily visit of his amiable wife. By the help of a kind relation, she was able to give him sometimes soup, wine, and fruit; and every day, clear or stormy, she visited the prison, to cheer the drooping spirits of her husband. She was uncommonly pretty. She seemed an angel, administering consolation to a man about to converse with angels.

"One day passed the hour of one o'clock, and she came not. Brown was uneasy. Two, three, and four passed, and she did not appear. Brown was distracted. A messenger arrived: Mrs. Brown was very dangerously ill, and supposed to be dying in a con vulsive fit. As soon as Brown received this infor

mation, he darted to the door with the rapidity of lightning. The inner door was open; and the jailer, who had just let some one in, was closing it as Brown passed violently through it. The jailer knocked him down with a massy iron key which he held in his hand; and Brown was carried back, lifeless and covered with blood, to his cell.

"Mrs. Brown died; and her husband was denied even the sad privilege of closing her eyes. He lingered for some time; till, at last, he called me, one day, and, gazing on me, while a faint smile played upon his lips he said, 'He believed death was more kind than his creditors.' After a few convulsive struggles, he expired.

"Legislators and sages of America! permit me to ask you, how much benefit has that creditor derived from the imprisonment, and consequent death of an amiable man, in the bloom of youth, who, without this cruelty, might have flourished, even now, an ornament and a glory to the nation?"

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINTH.
Celestial Wisdom.

How happy is the man who hears
Instruction's warning voice;
And who celestial wisdom makes
His early, only choice.

For she has treasures greater far
Than east or west unfold;
And her reward is more secure
Than is the gain of gold

In her right hand she holds to view
A length of happy years,

And in her left, the prize of fame
With honor bright appears.

She guides the young, with innocence,
In pleasure's path to tread:
A crown of glory she bestows
Upon the hoary head.

According as her labors rise,
So her rewards increase:
Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTIETH.

Death of Washington.

The equanimity which attended him through life, did not forsake him on his death-bed. He submitted to the inevitable stroke, with the becoming firmness of a man, the calmness of a philosopher, the resignation and confidence of a Christian. When convinced that his dissolution was fast approaching, he requested leave to die without further interruption: then, undressing himself, went tranquilly to bed, and, having placed himself in a suitable attitude, soon afterwards closed his eyes with his own hands, and yielded up his spirit without a struggle.

As no pencil has been able correctly to delineate the impressive dignity of his countenance; nor any chisel, the majestic figure of his person; so no pen can fully concentrate the transcendent qualities of his mind, or the amiable dispositions of his heart. The history of his country is his best eulogium; his most faithful monument, the love and admiration of the world.

The same Providence which guided the affairs of