Chapter 20

Each line of tube is 1513 feet in length; far surpassing in size any piece of wrought-iron work ever before put together; and its weight is 5000 tons, being nearly equal to that of two 120-gun ships, having on board, ready for sea, guns, provisions, and crew. The plate-iron covering of the tubes is not thicker than the hide of an elephant, and scarcely thicker than the bark of an oak-tree; whilst one of the large tubes, if placed on its end in St. Paul's churchyard, would reach 107 feet higher than the cross of the cathedral.

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THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England! Who guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe, And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep: With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages long and loud, And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor-flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

CAMPBELL.

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KAFFIR LETTER-CARRIER.

"I knew" (says the pleasing writer of "Letters from Sierra Leone") "that the long-looked-for vessel had at length furled her sails and dropped anchor in the bay. She was from England, and I waited, expecting every minute to feast my eyes upon at least one letter; but I remembered how unreasonable it was to suppose that any person would come up with letters to this lonely place at so late an hour, and that it behoved me to exercise the grace of patience until next day. However, between ten and eleven o'clock, a loud shouting and knocking aroused the household, and the door was opened to a trusty Kroo messenger, who, although one of a tribe who would visit any of its members in their own country with death, who could 'savey white man's book,' seemed to comprehend something of our feelings at receiving letters, as I overheard him exclaim, with evident glee, 'Ah! massa! here de right book come at last.' Every thing, whether a brown-paper parcel, a newspaper, an official despatch, a private letter or note is here denominated a 'book,' and this man understood well that newspapers are never received so gladly amongst 'books' from England as letters." The Kaffir, in the Engraving, was sketched from one employed to convey letters in the South African settlements; he carries his document in a split at the end of a cane.

It is a singular sight in India to see the catamarans which put off from some parts of the coast, as soon as ships come in sight, either to bear on board or to convey from thence letters or messages. These frail vessels are composed of thin cocoa-tree logs, lashed together, and big enough to carry one, or, at most, two persons. In one of these a small sail is fixed, and the navigator steers with a little paddle; the float itself is almost entirely sunk in the water, so that the effect is very singular--a sail sweeping along the surface with a man behind it, and apparently nothing to support them. Those which have no sails are consequently invisible and the men have the appearance of treading the water and performing evolutions with a racket. In very rough weather the men lash themselves to their little rafts but in ordinary seas they seem, though frequently washed off, to regard such accidents as mere trifles, being naked all but a wax cloth cap in which they keep any letters they may have to convey to ships in the roads, and swimming like fish. Their only danger is from sharks, which are said to abound. These cannot hurt them while on their floats; but woe be to them if they catch them while separated from that defence. Yet, even then, the case is not quite hopeless, since the shark can only attack them from below; and a rapid dive, if not in very deep water, will sometimes save them.

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THE SEASONS.

SPRING.

Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come, And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud, While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

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Hail! Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail; To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thought Continual climb; who, with a master hand. Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By Thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By Thee disposed into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells The juicy tide--a twining mass of tubes. At thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things. As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend My panting Muse! And hark! how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour The mazy running soul of melody Into my varied verse! while I deduce From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves.

SUMMER.

From bright'ning fields of ether fair disclosed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth: He comes attended by the sultry hours, And ever-fanning breezes on his way; While from his ardent look the turning Spring Averts his blushing face, and earth and skies, All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.

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Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid To meditate the blue profound below; Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek, Instant emerge: and through the obedient wave, At each short breathing by his lip repell'd, With arms and legs according well, he makes, As humour leads, an easy-winding path; While from his polish'd sides a dewy light Effuses on the pleased spectators round.

This is the purest exercise of health. The kind refresher of the Summer heats: Nor, when cold Winter keens the brightening flood, Would I, weak-shivering, linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles, and is oft preserved By the bold swimmer, in the swift elapse Of accident disastrous.

AUTUMN.

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whatever the wintry frost Nitrous prepared, the various-blossom'd Spring Put in white promised forth, and Summer suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.

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Hence from the busy, joy-resounding fields In cheerful error let us tread the maze Of Autumn, unconfined; and taste, revived, The breath of orchard big with bending fruit. Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower Incessant melts away. The juicy pear Lies in a soft profusion scatter'd round. A various sweetness swells the gentle race, By Nature's all-refining hand prepared; Of tempered sun, and water, earth, and air, In ever-changing composition mix'd. Such, falling frequent through the chiller night, The fragrant stores, the wide projected heaps Of apples, which the lusty-handed year, Innumerous, o'er the blushing orchard shakes.

WINTER.

See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train-- Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These--that exalt the soul to solemn thought And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms; Congenial horrors, hail: with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless solitude I lived, And sung of nature with unceasing joy; Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain, Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst, Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky.

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Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, That sees astonish'd, and astonish'd sings! Ye, too, ye winds! that now begin to blow With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. Where are your stores, ye powerful beings, say, Where your aerial magazines reserved To swell the brooding terrors of the storm? In what far distant region of the sky, Hush'd in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm?

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'Tis done; dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies! How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man! See here thy pictured life! Pass some few years Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, And sober autumn fading into age, The pale concluding winter comes at last The shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? Those gay-spent festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life? All now are vanish'd; virtue sole survives, Immortal, never-failing friend of man-- His guide to happiness on high.

THOMSON.

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ON MUSIC.

There are few who have not felt the charms of music, and acknowledged its expressions to be intelligible to the heart. It is a language of delightful sensations, that is far more eloquent than words: it breathes to the ear the clearest intimations; but how it was learned, to what origin we owe it, or what is the meaning of some of its most affecting strains, we know not.

We feel plainly that music touches and gently agitates the agreeable and sublime passions; that it wraps us in melancholy, and elevates us to joy; that it dissolves and inflames; that it melts us into tenderness, and rouses into rage: but its strokes are so fine and delicate, that, like a tragedy, even the passions that are wounded please; its sorrows are charming, and its rage heroic and delightful. As people feel the particular passions with different degrees of force, their taste of harmony must proportionably vary. Music, then, is a language directed to the passions; but the rudest passions put on a new nature, and become pleasing in harmony: let me add, also, that it awakens some passions which we perceive not in ordinary life. Particularly the most elevated sensation of music arises from a confused perception of ideal or visionary beauty and rapture, which is sufficiently perceivable to fire the imagination, but not clear enough to become an object of knowledge. This shadowy beauty the mind attempts, with a languishing curiosity, to collect into a distinct object of view and comprehension; but it sinks and escapes, like the dissolving ideas of a delightful dream, that are neither within the reach of the memory, nor yet totally fled. The noblest charm of music, then, though real and affecting, seems too confused and fluid to be collected into a distinct idea.

Harmony is always understood by the crowd, and almost always mistaken by musicians. The present Italian taste for music is exactly correspondent to the taste for tragi-comedy, that about a century ago gained ground upon the stage. The musicians of the present day are charmed at the union they form between the grave and the fantastic, and at the surprising transitions they make between extremes, while every hearer who has the least remainder of the taste of nature left, is shocked at the strange jargon. If the same taste should prevail in painting, we must soon expect to see the woman's head, a horse's body, and a fish's tail, united by soft gradations, greatly admired at our public exhibitions. Musical gentlemen should take particular care to preserve in its full vigour and sensibility their original natural taste, which alone feels and discovers the true beauty of music.

If Milton, Shakspeare, or Dryden had been born with the same genius and inspiration for music as for poetry, and had passed through the practical part without corrupting the natural taste, or blending with it any prepossession in favour of sleights and dexterities of hand, then would their notes be tuned to passions and to sentiments as natural and expressive as the tones and modulations of the voice in discourse. The music and the thought would not make different expressions; the hearers would only think impetuously; and the effect of the music would be to give the ideas a tumultuous violence and divine impulse upon the mind. Any person conversant with the classic poets, sees instantly that the passionate power of music I speak of, was perfectly understood and practised by the ancients--that the Muses of the Greeks always sung, and their song was the echo of the subject, which swelled their poetry into enthusiasm and rapture. An inquiry into the nature and merits of the ancient music, and a comparison thereof with modern composition, by a person of poetic genius and an admirer of harmony, who is free from the shackles of practice, and the prejudices of the mode, aided by the countenance of a few men of rank, of elevated and true taste, would probably lay the present half-Gothic mode of music in ruins, like those towers of whose little laboured ornaments it is an exact picture, and restore the Grecian taste of passionate harmony once more to the delight and wonder of mankind. But as from the disposition of things, and the force of fashion, we cannot hope in our time to rescue the sacred lyre, and see it put into the hands of men of genius, I can only recall you to your own natural feeling of harmony and observe to you, that its emotions are not found in the laboured, fantastic, and surprising compositions that form the modern style of music: but you meet them in some few pieces that are the growth of wild unvitiated taste; you discover them in the swelling sounds that wrap us in imaginary grandeur; in those plaintive notes that make us in love with woe; in the tones that utter the lover's sighs, and fluctuate the breast with gentle pain; in the noble strokes that coil up the courage and fury of the soul, or that lull it in confused visions of joy; in short, in those affecting strains that find their way to the inmost recesses of the heart,

Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.--_Milton_.

USHER.

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THE AFFLICTED POOR.

Say ye--oppress'd by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose, Who press the downy couch while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless, ever new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaint endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can cure: How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the sloping sides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen, And lath and mud are all that lie between, Save one dull pane that coarsely patch'd gives way To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day: There, on a matted flock with dust o'erspread, The drooping wretch reclines his languid head! For him no hand the cordial cup supplies, Nor wipes the tear which stagnates in his eyes; No friends, with soft discourse, his pangs beguile. Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

CRABBE.

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MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball: O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul which flies to thee, her trust her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest: Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; Teach my best reason, reason; my best will Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear; Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss; to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? with the years beyond the flood! It is the signal that demands dispatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down--on what? A fathomless abyss! A dread eternity! How surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes-- From different natures, marvellously mix'd: Connexion exquisite! of distant worlds Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity; A beam ethereal--sullied and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger. Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh, what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread Alternately transported and alarm'd! What can preserve my life, or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof. While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool, Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain! Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod: Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal: Even silent night proclaims eternal day! For human weal Heaven husbands all events; Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.

YOUNG.

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FAREWELL.

Nay, shrink not from that word "Farewell!" As if 'twere friendship's final knell-- Such fears may prove but vain: So changeful is life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever, Hope may say, We part to meet again!

E'en the last parting earth can know, Brings not unutterable woe To souls that heav'nward soar: For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts, that here at parting sigh, May meet--to part no more!

BARTON.

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VOCABULARY OF WORDS USED IN THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON READING BOOK.

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[We have considered that it would be useful to the young reader to have a ready means of reference, in the READING BOOK itself, to all unusual words of one syllable, and all the words of two syllables and above, that occur in the various lessons. In the following pages will be found, properly accentuated, all the more difficult polysyllables, with their meanings, derived from Johnson, Walker, and other competent authorities.]

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ABA'NDON, _v.a._ give up; resign, or quit; forsake; leave

ABI'LITY, _s._ capacity; qualification; power

A'BJECT, _a._ mean; being of no hope or regard; destitute

ABLU'TION, _s._ the act of cleansing or washing clean; water used in washing

ABO'LISH, _v.a._ make void; put an end to; destroy

ABO'UND, _v.n._ have in great plenty; be in great plenty

ABRE'AST, _ad._ side by side

ABRU'PTLY, _ad._ hastily; suddenly; without the due forms of preparation

A'BSOLUTE, _a._ positive; certain; unlimited

A'BSTRACT, _s._ the smaller quantity containing the virtue or power of the greater

ABSTRU'SE, _a._ hidden; difficult

ABU'NDANT, _a._ plentiful

ABU'TMENT, _s._ that which borders upon another

ACA'DEMY, _s._ (from _Academus_, an Athenian, who founded a public school at Athens, which after him was called Academia, _Latin_), place of education; an assembly or society of men, uniting for the promotion of some art

A'CCENT, _s._ the sound of a syllable; a modification of the voice expressive of the passions or sentiments; the marks made upon syllables to regulate their pronunciation

A'CCIDENT, _s._ that which happens unforeseen; chance

ACCO'MPANY, _v.n._ associate with; become a companion to

ACCO'MPLICE, _s._ an associate; partner

ACCO'MPLISHMENT, _s._ ornament of mind or body; acquirement

ACCO'ST, _v.a._ speak to; address; salute

ACCO'UNT, _s._ the state or result of a computation--as, the _account_ stands thus between us; narrative; value