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features, and that awkward form, beautiful. Yet so it is. He sees, like Desdemona, her “visage in her mind,” or her affections. A light from within shines through the external uncomeliness, ---softens, irradiates, and glorifies it. That which to others seems common place and unworthy of note is to him, in the words of Spenser,
“A sweet, attractive kind of grace;
A full assurance given by looks;
The lineaments of gospel books." 2 “Handsome is that handsome does; hold up your heads, girls!" was the language of Primrose in the play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy matron was right. Would that all my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that statue of the Venus “which enchants the world,” could be persuaded to listen to her! What is good-looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle; generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around you; and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words of admiration. Loving and pleasing associations will gather about you.
3. Never mind the ugly reflection which your glass may give you. That mirror has no heart. But quite another picture is yours on the retina of human sympathy. There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace “which passeth show," rests over it, softening and mellowing its features, just as the full, calm 'moonlight melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious loveliness. “Hold up your heads, girls!" repeat after Primrose. Why should you not? Every mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise plain faces will look forth like those of angels.
4. Beautiful to Ledyard, stiffening in the cold of a Northern winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke-stained women of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, and ministered to his necessities with kindness and gentle words of compassion. Lovely to the homesick heart of Park seemed the dark maids of Sego, as they sung their low and simple song of welcome beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white stranger, who had “no mother to bring him milk, and no wife to grind him corn.” Oh, talk as we may of beauty as a thing to be chiseled from marble, or wrought out on canvas; speculate as we may upon its colors and outlines; what is it but an intellectual abstraction, after all? The heart feels a beauty of another kind; looking through the outward environment, it discovers a deeper and more real loveliness. 5. “I have seen,” said Charles Lamb, "faces upon which the dove of peace sat brooding.” In that simple and beautiful record of a holy life, the Journal of John Woolman, there is a passage of which I have been more than once reminded in my intercourse with my fellow-beings :-"Some glances of real beauty may be seen in their faces who dwell in true meekness. There is a harmony in the sound of that voice to which divine love gives utterance."
6. Quite the ugliest face I ever saw was that of a woman whom the world calls beautiful. Through its “silver vail” the evil and ungentle passions looked out hideous and hateful. On the other hand, there are faces which the multitude, at the first glance, pronounce homely, unattractive, and such as “Nature fashions by the gross,” which I always recognise with a warm heart-thrill. Not for the world would I have one feature changed: they please me as they are; they are hallowed by kind memories; they are beautiful through their associations; nor are they any the less welcome that with my admiration of them “the stranger intermeddleth not."
NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.
BY ISAAO MCLELLAN.
1. NEW ENGLAND's dead! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
By bloody victory.
Its red and awful tide,
With slaughter deeply dyed.
And on the Southern plain,
And by the roaring main.
2. The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
A handful of brave men;
And sent to them the victory.
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
seek a stern redress,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
And where are ye to-day?
That ye have pass'd away;
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
Above each soldier's mound.
Shall muster them no more;
And they not heed its roar.
In many a bloody day,
For they have pass'd away.
EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH ON THE GREEK REVOLUTION.
BY HENRY CLAY.
1. ARE we so low, so base, 80 despicable, that we may not express our horror, articulate our detestation, of the most brutal and atrocious war that ever stained earth, or shocked high Heaven, with the ferocious deeds of a brutal soldiery, set on by the clergy and followers of a fanatical and inimical religion, rioting in excess of blood and butchery, at the mere details of which the heart sickens ? If the great mass of Christendom can look coolly and calmly on, while all this is perpetrated on a Christian people, in their own vicinity, in their very presence, let us, at least, show that, in this distant extremity, there is still some sensibility and sympathy for Christian wrongs and sufferings; that there are still feelings, which can kindle into indignation at the oppression of a people endeared to us by every ancient recollection, and every modern tie.
2. But, sir, it is not first and chiefly for Greece that I wish to see this measure adopted. It will give them but little aid, -that aid purely of a moral kind. It is, indeed, soothing and solacing, in distress, to hear the accents of a friendly voice. We know this as a people. But, sir, it is principally and mainly for America herself, for the credit and character of our common country, that I hope to see this resolution pass; it is for our own unsullied name that I feel.
3. What appearance, sir, on the page of history, would a record like this make?—“In the month of January, in the year of our Lord and Savior 1824, while all European Christendom beheld, with cold, unfeeling apathy, the unexampled wrongs and inexpressible misery of Christian Greece, a proposition was made in the Congress of the United States—almost the sole, the last, the greatest repository of human hope and of human freedom, the representatives of a nation capable of bringing into the field a million of bayonets—while the freemen of that nation were spontaneously expressing its deep-toned feeling, its fervent prayer, for Grecian success; while the whole continent was rising, by one simultaneous motion, solemnly and anxiously supplicating and invoking the aid of Heaven to spare Greece and to invigorate her arms; while temples and senate-houses were all resounding with one burst of generous sympathy; in the year of our Lord and Savior,—that Savior alike of Christian Greece and of us, -a proposition was offered, in the American Congress, to send á messenger to Greece, to inquire into her state and condition, with an expression of our good wishes and our sympathies,-and it was rejected !”
4. Ğo home, if you dare,-go home, if you can,—to your constituents, and tell them that you voted it down! Meet, if you dare, the appalling countenances of those who sent you here, and tell them that you shrank from the declaration of your own senti ments; that you cannot tell how, but that some unknown dread, some indescribable apprehension, some indefinable danger, affrighted you; that the specters of cimeters, and crowns, and crescents, gleamed before you, and alarmed you; and that you suppressed all the noble feelings prompted by religion, by liberality, by national independence, and by humanity! I cannot bring myself to believe that such will be the feeling of a majority of this House.
BY JOHN HOME.
Glenalvon-Norval. (Norval is looking toward the army, and does not observe Glenalvon till the latter speaks to him.)
Glenalvon. (Aside.) His port I love: he's in a proper mood To chide the thunder, if at him it roar'd. (Aloud.) Has Norval seen the troops ?
Norval. The setting sun
Glen. Thou talk'st it well; no leader of our host
Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name,
Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds
Norv. Sir, I have been accustom’d, all my days,