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LESSON XXII. SPELL AND DEFINE--1. Supernatural, beyond what is natural; miraculous. 2. Impudent, without shame; wanting modesty. 3. Deceas'ed, dead. 4. Adopted, taken as one's own. 5. Ungrateful, not thankful. 6. Incur'red, made one's self subject to. 7. Vig'ils, watches; forbearance of sleep.
Note.—The dash at the end of a remark, denotes that the speaker is interrupted by the one with whom he is conversing.
Mrs. Credulous and the Fortune-Teller.—ANON.
Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that knows every thing ?
Fortune-Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam, but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowledge.
Mrs. C. Ayè, so you say ; but every body else says you know every thing ; and I have come all the way from Boston to consult
for you must know I have met with a dreadful loss.
F. T. We are liable to losses in this world, mádam.
Mrs. C. Yès, and I have had my share of them, though I shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving.
F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes with fortitude, by this time.
Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear husband, rest his soul, used to say, “Molly, you are as patient as Job, though you never had any children to lose as he had.”
F. T. Job was a model of patience, madam, and few could lose their all with so much resignation.
Mrs. C. Ah, sír, that is too trùe, for even the small loss I have suffered, overwhelms me.
F. T. The loss of property, madam, comes home to the bosom of the best of us.
Mrs. C. Yes, sir ; and when the thing lost can not be replace], it is doubly distressing. When my poor, good man, on our wedding day, gave me the ring, “Keep it, Molly," said he, “ till you diè, for my
sake.” And now,
that I should have lost it, after keeping it thirty years, and locking it up 80 carefully all the time, as I did
F. T. We cannot be too careful in this world, madam ; our best friends often deceive us.
Mrs. C. True, sir, true—but who would have thought that the child I took, as it were, out of the street, and brought up as my own, could have been guilty of such ingratitude ? She never would have touched what was not her own, if her vagabond lover had not put her up to it.
F. T. Ah, madam, ingratitude is the basest of all crimes.
Mrs. C. Yes, but to think that the impudent creature should deny she took it, when I saw it in the possession of that wretch myself.
F. T. Impudence, madam, usually accompanies crime. But my time is precious, and the star that rules your destiny will set, and your fate be involved in darkness, unless 1 proceed to business immediately. The stars inform me, madam, that you are a widow.
Mrs. C. La ! sir, was you acquainted with my deceased husband ?
F. T. No. madam, we do not receive our knowledge by such means.
Thy name is Mary, and thy dwelling place is Boston.
Mrs. C. Some spirit must have told you this, for certain.
F. T. This is not all, madam. You were married at the age of twenty years, and were the sole heir of your deceased husband.
Mrs. C. I perceive, sir, you know every thing:
F. T. Madam, I can not help knowing what I do know; I must therefore inform you that your adopted daughter, in the dead of night
Mrs. C. No, sir, it was in the day-time.
F. T. Do not interrupt me, madam. In the dead of night, your adopted daughter planned the robbery which deprived you of your wedding-ring. Mrs. C. No earthly being could have told you this, for I
my right hand know that I possessed it, lest some evil should happen to it.
F. T. Hear me, madam, you have come all this distance to consult the fates, and find your ring.
Mrs. C. You have guessed my intention exactly, sir.
F. T. Guessed! madam. I know this is your object; and I know, moreover, that your ungrateful daughter has incurred your displeasure, by receiving the addresses of a worthless man.
Mrs. C. Every word is gospel truth.
Mrs. C. I knew he did, I told her so. But, good sir, can you tell me who has the ring ?
F. T. This young man has it.
F. T. The law points out the way, madam—it is my business to point out the rògue-you must catch hím.
Mrs. C. You are right, sir-and if there is law to be had, I will spend every cent I own, but I will have it. I knew he was the robber, and I thank you for the information. [Going.]
F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations.
Mrs. C. O, right, sir. I forgot to pay you. What am I indebted to you?
F. T. Only five dollars, madam.
Mrs. C. [Handing him the money.] There it is, sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have found the ring.
F. T. I never take but five, madam. Farewell, madam, your friend is at the door with your chaise.
[He leaves the room.]
[Enter, Friend.] Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller say
7 ? Mrs. C. O, he told me I was a widow, and lived in Boston, and had an adopted daughter-and
Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not ?
Mrs. C. Yes; but how should he know it? He told me, too, that I had lost a ring,
Friend. Did he tell you where to find it ?
Mrs. C. O yes! he says that fellow has it, and I must go to law and get it, if he will not give it up. What do you think of that?
Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told you. But how much did you pay for this prěcious information.
Mrs. C. Only five dollars.
Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise 10 bring you here, five dollars for the information that you had already, and all this to gain possession of a ring not worth one quarter of the expense !
Mrs. C. O, the rascal ! how he has cheated me. I will go to the world's end but I will be revenged.
Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing about it, for every effort to recover your money, will only expose your folly.
QUESTIONS.-1. What did the fortune-teller first tell Mrs. C. that the stars informed him? 2. What did he next tell her ? 3. How had he learned all this? 4. What had she said, from which he knew that she was married at twenty, and the sole heir of her husband? 5. How did he know what she had lost, and who had taken it? 6. How did he know that her adopted daughter had incurred her displeasure? 7. How was she told she must get her ring? 8. What did she pay the fortune-teller ? 9. How much for her chaise? 10. What was her ring worth? 11. Was she a bright dame ?
Is the first question direct or indirect? What inflection has its answer, and why? (Rule II. Note II.) What tones of voice should be assumed in order to personate the different individuals, introduced in this dialogue ? Should the voice fall at the dash, when it is used to denote an interruption? Why is you emphatic, third paragraph ? (Les. VIII. Note VIII.) Can you account for the different infections as marked on sir ? Why has the second word, guessed, the rising inflection as marked ?
LESSON XXIII. SPELL AND DEFINE-1. Or'de al, a severe trial; a test. 2. Inclination, a leaning of the mind or will to some object. 3. Pre'cincts, limits or bounds. 4. Sanctify, to cleanse; literally, to make holy. 5. Divorced, separated. 6. Brood, to remain in anxious thought. 7. Portals, doors. 8. Pensive, thoughtful. 9. Extinguishes, puts out, or destroys. 10. Compunc'tious, causing pain on account of offenses. 11. Instinct'ive, acting without reasoning. 12. Fu'tile, worthless; trifling.
Sorrow for the Dead.-W. IRVING. 1. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is thera that the divine passion of the soul, manifests its superioritv to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed, and kept alive uy thr presence of its object; but the love that is seated in the soui, can live on long remembrance.
2. The mere inclinations of sense, languish, and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor.
3. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow, from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget, but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open,--this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
4. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would forget the most tender of parents, though to remember, be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing over her he most loved,—when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals, would accept of the consolation that must be brought by forgetfulness?
5. Nò; the love that survives the tomb, is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and, when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection,—when the sudden anguish, and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, are softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the brightest hours of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ?
6. Nò; there is a voice from the tomb, sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. Oh, the gráve! the gràve! ít buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment!
From its peaceful bosom, spring none but fond regrets, and tender recollections. Who can look
the grave, even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth, that lies moldering before him ?
7. Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and there medi. tate; there settle the account with thy conscience, for every past endearment, unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent, if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its happiness in thy arms, to doubt one mo. ment of thy kindness, or thy truth,-if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, word, or deed, the spirit