unoffending countries; what in the horrors and murders perpetrated upon the subdued victims of their rage in any district which they have overrun,—worse than the conduct of those great powers in the miserable, devoted and trampledon Kingdom of Poland, and who have been, or are, our allies in this war for religion, social order, and the rights of Nations? O, but you “regretted the partition of Poland !" Yes, regretted !you regretted the violence, and that is all you did. You united yourself with the actors; you, in fact, by your acquiescence, confirmed the atrocity. But they are all your allies; and though they overran and divided Poland, there was nothing, perhaps, in the manner of doing it, which stamped it with peculiar infamy and disgrace. The hero of Poland, perhaps, was merciful and mild! Was he?

Let unfortunate Warsaw, and the miserable inhabitants of the suburb of Praga in particular, tell! What do we understand to have been the conduct of this magnanimous hero, with whom, it seems, Bonaparte is not to be compared ? He entered the suburb of Praga, the most populous suburb of Warsaw, and there let his soldiery loose on the miserable, unarmed and unresisting people. Men, women and child dren,--nay, infants at the breast,—wert doomed to one indiscriminate massacre ! Thousands of them were inhumanly, wantonly butchered ! And for what? Because they had dared to join in a wish to meliorate their own condition as a People, and to improve their Constitution, which had been confessed, by their own sovereign, to be in want of amendment And such is the hero upon whom the cause of “religion and social order" is to repose! And such is the man whom we praise for his discipline and his virtue, and whom we hold out as our boast and our dependence; while the conduct of Bonaparte unfits him to be treated with even as an enemy!

Rienzi to the Romans.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Friends! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fameBut base, ignoble slaves !-slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages; Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell-a name! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor,—there he stands,Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years Brother at once and son! He left my side,

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks—a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves !
Have

ye

brave sons ?-Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters ?-Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonoured ; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her Seven Hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans !
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once, again,-
Hear me, ye. walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus !—once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free! her sons
Shall walk with princes!

TONE OF ADMIRATION.

(See Tone Drill No. 1.)

[The tone of Admiration proclaims the speaker's great delight or pleasure in the person or thing contemplated. It has a tinge of Amazement.]

The Ice Storm.

MARK TWAIN.

After all, there are at least one or two things about New England weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we had not our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries-the ice-storm-when a leafless tree is clothed with the ice from the bottom to the top-ice that is as bright and clear as crystal; every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles, cold and white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond plume.

Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns all these myriads of beads and drops to prisms, that glow, and hum and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again, with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold; the tree becomes a sparkling fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels, and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence! One cannot make the words too strong.

Month after month I lay up hate and grudge against the New England weather; but when the ice-storm comes at last, I say: "There, I forgive you now; the books are square between us; you don't owe me a cent; go and sin some more; your little faults and foibles count for nothing; you are the most enchanting weather in the world.”

God and Beauty.

RICHARD S. STORRS, JR.

How perfectly replete is God's mind with all the laws and types of beauty.

We go into a collection of flowers and fruits, like those which we often see exhibited in the city or populous village, and there observe the innumerable varieties of color and of form assembled before us. Crimson, purple, scarlet, violet, every possible shade and tint of the green, the purest white, the richest, most velvety dark-blue or black, pearl color, gold color, lilac, vermillion, shades that melt into and are lost in each other, shades that are far too delicate to be defined by

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks—a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves !
Have

ye brave sons ?- Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters ?—Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonoured; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her Seven Hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans !
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once, again,
Hear me, ye.walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus !-once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free! her song
Shall walk with princes !

TONE OF ADMIRATION.

(See Tone Drill No. 1.)

[The tone of Admiration proclaims the speaker's great delight or pleasure in the person or thing contemplated. It has a tinge of Amazement. ]

The Ice Storm.

MARK TWAIN.

After all, there are at least one or two things about New England weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we had not our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries—the ice-storm—when a leafless tree is clothed with the ice from the bottom to the top-ice that