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1852.]
will only make a little oozing leak, that
trickles down the brown stains—like
tears.
“You love that old garret roof; and
you nestle down under its slope, with a
sense of its protecting power that no cas
tle walls can give to your maturer years.
Aye, your heart clings in boyhood to the
roof-tree of the old family garret, with a
grateful affection, and an earnest confi
dence, that the after years —whatever
mav be their successes, or their honours—
can never re-create. Under the roof-tree
|of his home, the boy feels safe : and
where, in the whole realm of life, with its
bitter toils, and its bitterer temptations,
will he feel safe again ?
“ But this you do not know. It seems
only a grand old place ; and it is capital
fun to search in its corners, and drag out
some bit of quaint old furniture, with a
leg broken, and fix your reins upon the
lion’s claws of the feet, and then—gallop
away! And you offer sister Nelly a
cnance, if she will be good ; and throw
out very patronizing words to little Char
lie, who is mounted upon a much hum
bler horse, —to wit, a decrepit nursery
chair, —as he of right should be, since he
is three years your junior.
“1 know no nobler forage ground fora
romantic, venturesome, mischievous boy,
than the garret of an old family man
sion, on a day of storm. It is a perfect
field of chivalry. The heavy rafters, the
dashing rain, the piles of spare mattresses
to carouse upon, the big trunks to hide
in, the old white coats and hats hanging
in obscure corners, like ghosts —are great!
And it is so far away from the old lady
who keeps rule in the nursery, that there
is no possible risk of a scolding, for
twisting off the fringe of the rug. There
is no baby in the garret to wake up.
Ihere isno 4 company’ in the garret to be
disturbed by the noise- There is no
crotchety old Uncle, or Grand-Ma, w r ith
their everlasting— 4 Boys —boys !’ —and
then a look of such horror !
“ fhere is great fun in groping through
a tall barrel of books and pamphlets, on
the look-out for startling pictures ; and
there are chestnuts in the garret, drying,
which you have discovered on a ledge of
the chimney ; and you slide a few into
vour pocket, and munch them quietly, —
giving now and then one to Nelly, and
be gg> n g her to keep silent; for you have
a great fear of its being forbidden fruit.”
the dying author and tiie
LIVING BOOK.
an( l interesting work entitled “The Fall of
Saxton; in two volumes, from the
Press of Charles Scribner.]
The vital spark of heavenly flame lin
gered on earth still, for five days of se
ver.e trial and painful anxiety, during
w “i°h shed its halo of celestial glory
aiound the dying man, as a prelude to
quitting its mortal flame. On the day
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
succeeding his visit to Frauen berg, a let
ter from Rheticus confirmed the previous
predictions of the Bishop ofCulm. Thrice
the ignorant, bigoted students of the Uni
versity, made an attempt to invade the
printing-office, whence the great astro
nomical truth was about to issue forth,
as anew era in science. In the last let
ter his friend announced that, 4 Even this
very morning, a set of madmen tried to
set fire to it. 1 have assembled all our
friends within the building, and we never
quit our posts either by day or night,
guarding the entrance, and keeping watch
over the workmen. The printers perforin
their work with one hand, while they hold
a pistol in the other. If we stand our
ground for two days, thy book is saved ;
for, let only ten copies be struck off, and
nothing will any longer be able to de
stroy it. But if either to-day or to-mor
row our enemies should succeed in gain
ing the upper hand’ .... Rheticus left
the sentence unfinished, but Copernicus
supplied the want; for he well knew how
much depended upon this eventful mo
ment. On the third day, another mes
senger made his appearance as the bearer
of fresh tidings of evil. 4 A compositor,
gained over by our enemies, has deliver
ed into their hands the manuscript of the
book, and it has been burned in the pub
lic square. Happily, the impression was
complete, and we are now putting it to
press But a popular tumult might
yet ruin all!’ ”
4 Such was the painful anxiety and
shameful persecution in which the immor
tal Copernicus passed the closing scenes
of his earthly existence! Life was ebb
ing fast—the torpor and chill of death
had already begun to steal over his once
active and powerful faculties —the dying
astronomer, the expiring saint, had near
ly closed those far seeing and placid
eyes, which had for more than fifty years
watched the stars as they rolled through
infinite space —that noble heart which
knew’ no guile, was now giving its last
throes to the current of life, when a horse
man galloping up to the door of that
humble and peaceful college,and in breath
less haste springing from his trembling
steed, hastened into the house of the dy
ing Copernicus, drew from his bosom a
volume, whose leaves were still damp
with the labour of the press, and placed it
in the hands of the expiring author. It
was the great work of that truly great
man, which had finally issued triumph
antly from the press, notwithstanding the
fiendish opposition to that book of im
mortality, which revealed to the world
the sublime philosophy and mysterious
history of the stars. Stern and unrelent
ing Death, who had already raised his
arms, and levelled his fatal arrow, stayed
the death-blow for a moment! The last
spark of life, so nearly extinguished,
seemed to be rekindled in the breast of
the dying philosopher; and for the last
time, raising his emaciated frame in the
bed, he grasped the book with his trem
bling, attenuated hand, and glanced his
expiring eye at its contents. A smile
lighted up his calm and submissive fea
tures, the precious book fell from his
deathly grasp, and clasping his hands to
gether, he exclaimed, in the language of
a dying Christian, 4 Lord, let thy servant
now depart in peace !’ ”
TIIE EVENING BELL.
[From “ Adrian, or the Clouds of the Mind.” From the
Press of Appletons, N.Y.]
44 It was a Sabbath afternoon. The
tolling of a church bell in the distant
town, calling to evening worship, was
the only sound that broke the stillness of
the fisherman’s hay. Softened and sil
vered by distance, the mournful monoto
ny of tiie tones, as they poured through
the still air, was in perfect harmony with
the repose of all animate and inanimate
nature. It seemed like the world’s fare
well to day.
44 There is something in the music of
distant bells, whether intended to speak
the language of joy or sorrow, indescriba
bly solemn. It is a sound which, unlike
all other sounds, except the continued
falling of a great body of water, seems as
it w r ere self-caused, and detached from all
immediate agencies of any kind. The
swelling, and the dying away to swell
again, and again to die, has something
that accords so strangely with the full
heart of man—something so powerfully
yet dimly suggestive of the great vague
object of its deepest yearnings—that
when listening to them, we seem to hear
within us a melancholy echo of some
great mystery.
44 How much is there in the feelings of
all of us, which language can but faintly
shadow forth to the intelligence, but
which the heart appreciates at once by
harmonies of its own experience !
44 No sound was to be heard except
that of the distant bell.
44 Even in the country, and its most
quiet nooks, there comes, once in the
week, a Sabbath stillness, palpably dis
tinct from the languid repose of an ordi
nary summer’s day ; and so it was that
evening. The fishermen’s boats lay drawn
up upon the sands, careened a little upon
one side, with their painted hulls as dry
as if they had never known any other ele
ment than that on which they rested.
The bay lay glittering in front. Beyond
lay stretched the broad Atlantic, smooth
and motionless. All was still, except
when, through the calm air, swung the
evening bell in mighty waves of sound.'’
[J^r 3 Women arc formed for attach
ment. Their gratitude is unimpeachable.
Their love is an unceasing fountain of
delight to the man who has once attain
ed, and knows how to deserve it.
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