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was acquainted with the result of the whole. I doubled the guards of my house; and, after announcing to a circle. of the first men in the stàte-who were with me at the tíme -the very minute when these assassins would come to pay me their respects, thát sáme mìnute they arrived, asked for éntrance, and were denied it.

Procèed, Catiline, in your honourable career. Go where your destiny and your desìre are driving you. Evacuate the city for a season. The gates stand open. Begòne! Whát a shame' that the Manlian ármy should look out so lòng for their general! Take all your loving friends alòng with you; or, if thát be a vain hope, take, at least, as many as you cán, and cleanse the city for some short time. Let the walls of Rome' be the mediators between thée and mè; for, at présent, you are much too near me. I will not suffer you. I will not longer undergò you.

Lucius Catiline, awày! Begìn, as soon as you are áble, this shameful and unnatural war. Begin it, on yoúr part, under the shade of every dreadful òmen; on míne, with the sure and certain hope of safety to my country, and glory to myself: and when thís you have done, then do Thōu, whōse altar was first fōunded by the founder of our státe―Thóu, the stàblisher of this city, pour out thy vengeancel upon this mán' and all his adhèrents. Save us from his fúry; our public àltars, our sacred temples, our houses, and household gods; our líberties-our lives. Pursue, tutelar god, pursue them-these foes to the gods and goodness-these plunderers of Italy - these assassins of Rome. Erase them out of this life; and, in the next, let thy vengeance pursue them, insatiable, implácable, immortal!

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O weep for Moncontour! O weep for the hour
When the children of darkness and evil had power;

Moncontour, a village of France, 25 miles north-west of Poictiers. Here the Protestants (Huguenots) suffered a defeat in 1569.

When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

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weep for Moncontour! O weep for the slain

Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain!
O weep for the living, who linger to bear

The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair!

One look, one last look to the cots and the towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers;
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid.
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome;
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain;
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, to the dance of thy maids;
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees!
Farewell and for ever! The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave;
Our hearths we abandon-our lands we resign-
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.



[JOHN HOME, the author of the popular tragedy of "Douglas," was born near Ancrum, Roxburghshire, in 1724, and died in 1808. He was educated for the church, and on being licensed, was ordained minister of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. His tragedy of "Douglas" was performed at Edinburgh in 1756, and gave such offence to the presbytery, that the author, to avoid ecclesiastical censure, resigned his living, and ever after appeared and acted as a layman.]

Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth
The voice of sorrow' from my bursting heart,
Farewell a while, I will not leave you lòng;

For in your shades! I deem some spírit dwells,
Who, from the chiding strèam' or groaning óak,
Still hears and answers to Matilda's mòan.
O Douglas, Douglas! if departed ghosts
Are e'er permitted to review this world,
Within the circle of this wood thou art,
And, with the passion of immortals, hear'st
My lamentation; hear'st thy wretched wifel
Weep for her husband sláin, her ínfant lost.
My brother's timeless death' I seem to mourn,
Who perished with thee' on that fatal dày:
To thèe I lift my voice; to thèel address
The plaint which mórtal ear hath nèver heard.
O disregard me not; though I am called
Another's now, my heart is whòlly thíne.
Incapable of change, affection! lies

Buried, my Douglas, in thy bloody grave.



In many respects the organ of touch, as embodied in the hand, is the most wonderful of the senses. The organs of the other senses are passive; the organ of touch alone is active. The eye, the ear, and the nostril stand simply open: light, sound, and fragrance enter, and we are compelled to see, to hear, and to smell; but the hand selects what it shall touch, and touches what it pleases. It puts away from it the things which it hates, and beckons towards it the things which it desires; unlike the eye which must often gaze transfixed at horrible sights from which it cannot turn; and the ear, which cannot escape from the torture of discordant sounds; and the nostril, which cannot protect itself from hateful odours.

Moreover, the hand cares not only for its own wants, but, when the other organs of the senses are rendered useless, takes their duties upon it. The hand of the blind man goes

with him as an eye through the streets, and safely threads for him all the devious ways: it looks for him at the faces of his friends, and tells him whose kindly features are gazing upon him; it peruses books for him, and quickens the long hours by its silent readings.

It ministers as willingly to the deaf; and when the tongue is dumb and the ear stopped, its fingers speak eloquently to the eye, and enable it to discharge the unwonted office of a listener.

The organs of all the other senses, also, even in their greatest perfection, are beholden to the hand for the enhancement and the exaltation of their powers. It constructs for the eye a copy of itself, and thus gives it a telescope with which to range among the stars; and by another copy on a slightly different plan, furnishes it with a microscope, and introduces it into a new world of wonders. It constructs for the ear the instruments by which it is educated, and sounds them in its hearing till its powers are trained to the full. It plucks for the nostril the flower which it longs to smell, and distils for it the fragrance which it covets. As for the tongue, if it had not the hand to serve it, it might abdicate its throne as the Lord of Taste. In short, the organ of touch is the minister of its sister senses, and, without any play of words, is the handmaid of them all.

And if the hand thus munificently serves the body, not less amply does it give expression to the genius and the wit, the courage and the affection, the will and the power of man. Put a sword into it, and it will fight for him; put a plough into it, and it will till for him; put a harp into it, and it will play for him; put a pencil into it, and it will paint for him; put a pen into it, and it will speak for him, plead for him, pray for him. What will it not do? What has it not done? A steam-engine is but a larger hand, made to extend its powers by the little hand of man! An electric telegraph is but a long pen for that little hand to write with! All our huge cannons and other weapons of war, with which we so effectually slay our brethren, are only Cain's hand made bigger, and stronger, and

bloodier ! What, moreover, is a ship, a railway, a lighthouse, or a palace-what, indeed, is a whole city, a whole continent of cities, all the cities of the globe, nay, the very globe itself, in so far as man has changed it, but the work of that giant hand, with which the human race, acting as one mighty man, has executed his will !

When I think of all that man and woman's hand has wrought, from the day when Eve put forth her erring hand to pluck the fruit of the forbidden tree, to that dark hour when the pierced hands of the Saviour of the world were nailed to the predicted tree of shame, and of all that human hands have done of good and evil since, I lift up my hand, and gaze upon it with wonder and awe. What an instrument for good it is! What an instrument for evil! and all the day long it never is idle. There is no implement which it cannot wield, and it should never in working hours be without one. We unwisely restrict the term handicraftsman, or hand-worker, to the more laborious callings; but it belongs to all honest, earnest men and women, and is a title which each should covet. For the queen's hand there is the sceptre, and for the soldier's hand the sword; for the carpenter's hand the saw, and for the smith's hand the hammer; for the farmer's hand the plough; for the miner's hand the spade; for the sailor's hand the oar; for the painter's hand the brush; for the sculptor's hand the chisel; for the poet's hand the pen; and for the woman's hand the needle. If none of these or the like will fit us, the felon's chain should be round our wrist, and our hand on the prisoner's crank. But for each willing man and woman there is a tool they may learn to handle; to all these is the command, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might."


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