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wetted by water-by quicksilver. Which are not wetted by water? by quicksilver? How are capillary phenomena effected by this distinction? Give examples of capillary attraction in nature.
THE SAXON AND THE GAEL.
THE Chief in silence strode before,
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
And thou must keep thee with thy sword."
The Saxon paused:-"I ne'er delayed,
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Seck yonder brake beneath the cliff-
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye"Soars thy presumption then so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:My clansman's blood demands revenge. Not yet prepared for fight?—I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet-knight, Who ill deserves my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair."
"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, and steels my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed. Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still,
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
"Thy heart's blood, Chieftain, dyes my blade !"-
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.
[JOHN WILSON, a distinguished poet, critic, and prose-writer, the well-known Christopher North of "Blackwood's Magazine," was born in Paisley in 1788, and died in 1854. He was long Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. He has been ranked among the "Lake Poets." His poetical writings are characterised by great beauty of description, exquisite tenderness and elegance of sentiment, and varied richness of expression. But it is chiefly in periodical literature that he earned his well-merited fame. His contributions to "Blackwood's Magazine" are marked by an extraordinary combination of the most opposite qualities-pathos the purest, the deepest, and the most tender; wild, wanton, and withering sarcasm; sentiment, refined and exalted to the pitch of devotion; and humour of the freest, broadest, and most exuberant vein.]
FOR six years' Sabbaths I had seen the elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit, and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance during sermon, psalm, and prayer. On returning to the scenes of my infancy, I met the pastor going to call upon the elder; and with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death.
And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the fect of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which, otherwise, were blooming in health and beauty; and I recognised in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man who, we understood, was now lying on his death-bed. "They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is," said the minister, looking tenderly on the boy; "but love makes the young heart bold, and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."
As we slowly approached the cottage, through a deep snow-drift, which the distress within had prevented the inmates from removing, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared; and then their mother showed herself in their stead,