will stand by what he shall say." To this the others agreed, and the Brahmin called out, "O, stranger, what dost thou call this beast? Surely, O, Brahmin," said the knave, "it is a

fine sheep."

5. Then the Brahmin said, "Surely the gods have taken away my senses; " and he asked pardon of him who carried the dog, and bought it for a measure of rice and a pot of ghee,52 and offered it up to the gods, who, being wroth at this unclean sacri fice, smote him with a sore disease in all his joints.

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6. Thus, or nearly thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanscrit sop.EL The moral, like the moral of every fable that is worth the telling, lies on the surface. The writer evidently means to caution us against the practices of puffers, a class of people who have more than once talked the public into the most absurd errors.

7. It is amusing to think over the history of most of the publications which have had a run during the last few years. The publisher is often the publisher of some periodical work. In this periodical work the first flourish of trumpets is sounded. The peal is then echoed and reëchoed by all the other periodical works over which the publisher, or the author, or the author's cōtërie, may have any influence.

ΕΙ

8. The newspapers are for a fortnight filled with puffs of all the various kinds which Sheridan has recounted, direct, oblique, and collusive. Sometimes the praise is laid on thick, for simple-minded people. "Pathetic," "sublime," "splendid," "graceful, brilliant wit," "exquisite humor," and other phrases equally flattering, fall in a shower as thick and as sweet as the sugar-plums at a Roman carnival.EI

9. Sometimes greater art is used. A sinecure has been offered to the writer if he would suppress his work, or if he would even soften down a few of his incomparable portraits. A distinguished military and political character has challenged the inimitable sătīrist of the vices of the great; and the puffer is glad to learn that the parties have been bound over to keep the peace.

10. Sometimes it is thought expedient that the puffer should put on a grave face, and utter his panegyric in the form of admonition! "Such attacks on private character cannot be too much condemned. Even the exuberant wit of our author, and the irresistible power of his withering sarcasm, are no excuse for that utter disregard which he manifests for the feelings of others."

11. That people who live by personal slander should practise these arts is not surprising. Those who stoop to write calumnious books well stoop to puff them; and that the basest of

may

all trades should be carried on in the basest of all manners, is quite proper, and as it should be. But how any man who has the least self-respect, the least regard for his own personal dignity, can condescend to persecute the public with this rag-fair importunity, we do not understand.

12. Extreme poverty may, indeed, in some degree, be an excuse for employing these shifts, as it may be an excuse for stealing a leg of mutton. But we really think that a man of spirit and delicacy would quite as soon satisfy his wants in the one way as in the other.

MACAULAY.

2. Then rose the chōral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel91 answered keen;
And Zion's daughters poured their lays,.

With priest's and warrior's voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone :

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

3. But,

---

present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And, O! when stoops on Judah'sEI path

In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

4. Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn;
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

SCOTT.

LXXIII.

THE BRAVE MAN.

1. LOUD let the Brave Man's praises swell
As organ blast, or clang of bell !EI
Of lofty soul and spirit strong,
He asks not gold, - he asks but song!
Then glory to God, by whose gift I raise
The tribute of song to the Brave Man's praise!

2. The thaw-wind came from the southern sea,
Dewy and dark o'er Italy;

The scattered clouds fled far aloof,
As flies the flock before the wolf;

It swept o'er the plain, and it strewed the wood,
And it burst the ice-bands on river and flood.

3. The snow-drifts melt, till the mountain calls With the voice of a thousand water-falls; The waters are over both field and dell, Still doth the land-flood wax and swell; And high roll its billows, as in their track They hurry the ice-crags, ‚— a floating wrack."

4. On pillars stout, and arches wide,

A bridge of granite stems the tide;
And midway 'er the foaming flood.
Upon the bridge the toll-house stood,
There dwelleth the toll-man, with babes and wife,
O, tell-man!, toll-man! quick! flee for thy life!

5. Near and more near the wild waves urge; Loud howls the wind, loud rears the surge; The toll-man sprang on the roof in fright,

And he gazed on the waves in their gathering might "All-merciful God! to our sins be good! We are lost! we are lost! The flood! the flood!"

6. High rolled the waves! In headlong track
Hither and thither dashed the wrack!
On either bank uprose the flood;

Scarce on their base the arches stood!
The tell-man, trembling for house and life,
Out-screams the storm with his babes and wife.

7. High heaves the flood-wreck, block on block The sturdy pillars feel the shock;

On either arch the surges break,

On either side the arches shake.

They totter! they sink 'neath the whelming wave
All-merciful Heaven, have pity and save!

8. Upon the river's further strand
A trembling crowd of gazers stand;
In wild despair their hands they wring,
Yet none may aid or succor bring;
And the hapless toll-man, with babes and wife,
Is screaming for help through the stormy strife.

9. When shall the Brave Man's praises swell
As organ blast or clang of bell?

Ah! name him now, he tarries long;
Name him at last, my glorious song !
O speed, for the terrible death draws near;
O, Brave Man! O, Brave Man! arise, appear

10. Quick gallops up, with headlong speed,
A noble Count on noble steed!
And, lo! on high his fingers hold

A purse well stored with shining gold. "Two hundred pistoles' for the man who shall Yon perishing wretch from the yawning wave!"

11. Who is the Brave Man, say, my song: Shall to the Count thy meed belong?

Though, Heaven be praised, right brave he be
I know a braver still than he:

O, Brave Man! O, Brave Man! arise, appear!
O, speed, for the terrible death draws near!

12. And ever higher swell the waves,

And louder still the storm-wind raves,
And lower sink their hearts in fear,

1

O, Brave Man! Brave Man! haste, appear! Buttress and pillar, they groan and strain, And the rocking arches are rent in twain!

13. Again, again before their eyes,

High holds the Count the glittering prize;
All see, but all the danger shun,
Of all the thousand stirs not one.

And the toll-man in vain, through the tumult wild, Out-screams the tempest with wife and child.

14. But who amid the crowd is seen,

In peasant garb, with simple mien,
Firm, leaning on a trusty stave,
In form and feature tall and grave?
He hears the Count, and the scream of fear;
He sees that the moment of death draws near!

15. Into a skiff he boldly sprang;

He braved the storm that round him rang:

He called aloud on God's great name,
And backward a deliverer came.
But the fisher's skiff seems all too small
From the raging waters to save them all.

16. The river round him boiled and surged;
Thrice through the waves his skiff he urged,
And back through wind and waters' roar,
He bore them safely to the shore:

So fierce rolled the river, that scarce the last
In the fisher's skiff through the danger passed.

17. Who is the Brave Man? Say, my song,

To whom shall that high name belong
Bravely the peasant ventured in,

But 't was, perchance, the prize to win.
If the generous Count had proffered no gold,
The peasant, methinks, had not been so bold.

18. Out spake the Count, " Right boldly done!
Here, take thy purse; 't was nobly won ?
A generous act, in truth, was this,
And truly the Count right noble is;
But loftier still was the soul displayed
By him in the peasant-garb arrayed.

19. "Poor though I be, thy hand withhold;
I barter not my life for gold!
Yon hapless man is ruined now;

Great Count, on him thy gift bestow."
He spake from his heart in his honest pride,
And he turned on his heel and strōde aside.

20. Then loudly let his praises swell
As organ blast or clang of bell;
Of lofty soul and spirit strong,
He asks not gold, he asks but song!
So glory to God, by whose gift I raise

The tribute of song to the Brave Man's praise!

FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER.

LXXIV. A PUPIL'S TRIBUTE TO HIS TEACHER.

1. JOHN HENDERSON was born at Limerick, in Ireland, but came to England29 early in life with his parents. From the age of three years he discovered the pres ages of a great mind. Without retracing the steps of his progression, a general idea may be formed of them from the circumstance of his having professionally