acters. While he commanded in the French army, he had the misfortune to receive a challenge from a person of distinction in the same service.

The marquis returned answer, by the person that brought the challenge, that he was ready to convince the gentleman that he was in the wrong, and, if he could not satisfy him, he was willing to ask his pardon. The other, not satisfied with this answer, insisted upon his meeting him with the sword.

To this, he answered, that he was resolved not to do it, for God and the king had forbidden it; otherwise, he would have him know, that all the endeavors he had used to pacify him, did not proceed from any fear of him, but of the Almighty, and his displeasure; that he should go every day about his usual business, and, if he were assaulted, he should make him repent of it.

The angry man, not being able to provoke the marquis to a duel, and meeting him one day by chance, drew his sword and attacked him, who immediately wounded and disarmed both him and his second, with the assistance of a servant by whom he was attended.

But then did this worthy nobleman show the difference between a brutish and a true Christian courage: for he led them to his tent, refreshed them with wine and cordials, caused their wounds to be dressed, and their swords to be restored to them, and dismissed them with Christian and friendly advice, and was never heard to mention the affair afterwards to his nearest friends.

It was a usual saying of his, that there was more true courage and generosity in bearing and forgiving an injury for the love of God, than in requiting it with another; in suffering rather than revenging; because the thing was much more difficult: that wolves and bears had courage enough, but it was a brutish courage; whereas ours should be such as becomes reasonable creatures, and disciples of the benevolent Redeemer.

LESSON FIFTY-SECOND.

The Golden Mean.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power:
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blast; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.

The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain:
If winter bellow from the north,

Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky;

The god that strings the silver bow
Awakes, sometimes, the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display;

And let thy strength be seen:
But oh! if fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in.

LESSON FIFTY-THIRD.

The Reformed Robber.

It was a custom with Archbishop Sharpe, in his journeys, generally to have a saddle horse attending his carriage, that, in case of feeling fatigued with sitting, he might take the refreshment of a ride. In his advanced age, and a few years before his death, as he was going in this manner to his episcopal residence, and was got a mile or two in advance of his carriage, a decently dressed, good looking young man, on horseback, came up to him, and, with a trembling hand, and faltering tone of voice, presented a pistol to his grace's breast, demanding his money.

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The archbishop, with great composure, turned round, and, looking steadfastly at him, desired that he would remove that dangerous weapon and tell him fairly his condition. Sir, sir," cried the youth, with great agitation, "no words; 't is not a time for words now; your money instantly." "Hear me, young man," said the venerable prelate; come on with me. I, you see, am a very old man, and my life is of little consequence; yours seems far otherwise. Sharpe, the archbishop of York; my carriage and servants are behind; but conceal your perturbations, and tell me who you are and what money you want, and, on the word of my character, I will not injure you, but prove a friend.

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I am

Here, take this," giving him a purse of money; "and now tell me how much you want, to make you

independent of so dangerous and destructive a course as you are now engaged in." "Oh, sir," replied the man, "I detest the business as much as you do; I am—but—but—at home, there are creditors who will not wait; fifty pounds, my lord, would indeed do what no thought or tongue besides my own can feel or express.

Well, sir, I take it at your word; and, upon my honor, if you will compose yourself for a day or two, and then call on me at what I have now given you shall be made up to that sum; trust me, deceive you."

I will not

Noth

The highwayman looked at him, was silent, and went off; and, at the time appointed, actually waited on the archbishop, received the money, and assured his lordship that he hoped his words had left impressions which no inducement could ever efface. ing more transpired of him for a year and a half; when, one morning, a person knocked at his grace's gate, and, with a peculiar earnestness of voice and countenance, desired to see him.

The archbishop ordered the stranger to be introduced. He had scarcely entered the room, when his countenance changed, his knees tottered, and he sunk almost breathless on the floor. On recovering, he requested an audience in private. This being granted, he said, "My lord, you cannot have forgotten the circumstance of relieving a highwayman. God and gratitude will never suffer it to be obliterated from my mind. In me, my lord, you now behold that once most wretched of mankind; but now, by your inexpressible humanity, rendered equal, perhaps superior to millions. Oh, my lord, 't is you, 't is you that have saved me, body and soul; 't is you that have saved a much loved wife, and a little brood of children, whom I love dearer than my own life.

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Here, my lord, is the fifty pounds; but never shall I find language to express what I feel; God is

your witness, your deed itself is your glory; and may heaven be your present and everlasting reward." The archbishop was refusing the money, when the gentleman added, "My lord, I was the younger son of a wealthy man; your grace knew him,.I am sure, my name is -; my marriage alienated the affections of my father, who left me to sorrow and penury. "My distresses-but your grace already knows to what they drove me. A month since, my brother died, a bachelor, and intestate; his fortune has become mine; and I, spared and preserved by your goodness from an ignominious death, am now the most penitent, the most grateful, and the happiest of human beings."

LESSON FIFTY-FOURTH.

The Cuckoo.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

When heaven is filled with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs.

The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood,
To pull the flowers so gay,

Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.