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theft, maidens at the mirror, slaves at the fountain, traders in their shops, students at their books. Some people attempted flight, guided by some blind people, who had walked so long in darkness that no thicker shadows could ever come upon them; but of these many were struck down on the way. When, a few days afterwards, people came from the surrounding country to the place, they found nought but a black, level, smoking plain, sloping to the sea, and covered thickly with ashes. Down, down, beneath, thousands and thousands were sleeping the sleep that knows no waking, with all their little pomps, and vanities, and frivolities, and pleasures, and luxuries, buried with them.

This took place on the 23d of August, A. D. 79, and the name of the town thus suddenly overwhelmed with ruins was Pompeii. Sixteen hundred and seventeen years afterwards, curious persons began to dig and excavate on the spot, and lo, they found the city pretty much as it was when overwhelmed. The houses were standing, the paintings were fresh, and the skeletons stood in the very positions and the very places in which death had overtaken their owners so long ago. The marks left by the cups of the tipplers still remained on the counters; the prisoners still wore their fetters, the belles their chains and bracelets; the miser held his hand on his hoarded coin, and the priests were lurking in the hollow images of their gods, from which they uttered responses and deceived the worshippers. There were the altars, with the blood dry and erusted upon them, the stables in which the victims of the sacrifice were kept, and the hall of mysteries, in which were symbolical paintings. The researches are still going on, new wonders are every day coming to light, and we soon shall have almost as perfect an idea of a Roman town in the first century of the Christian era as if we had walked the streets and gossiped with the idle loungers at the fountains. Pompeii is the ghost of an extinct civilization rising up before us.

LXXII.- THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.

WORDSWORTH.

[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, in the county of Cumberland, Euglaud, April 7, 1770, and died April 23, 1850. His life was passed for the most part in that beautiful region of Eugland where he was born, and with which so much of his poetry is inseparably associated. He made his first appearance as an author in 1793, by the publication of a thin quarto volume of poems, which did not attract much attention. Indeed, for many years his poetry made little impression on the general public, and that not of a favorable kind. The Edinburgh Review --the great authority in matters of literary taste- set its face against him; and Wordsworth's own style and manner were so peculiar, and so unlike those of the poetry which was popalar at the time, that he was obliged to create the taste by which he himself was judged. As time went on, his influence and popularity increased; and many years before his death he enjoyed a fame and consideration which in its calmness and serenfty resembled the unbiased judgment of posterity.

Wordsworth's popularity has never been of that comprehensive kind which Scott and Byrou possessed. He had many intense admirers; but there were also many who were insensible to his claims, and many who admired him only with qualifications and lia itations. And the sceptics are not without some ground to stand upon. He is often cold, languid, and prosaic. He is deficient in the power of presenting pictures; and an illustrated edition of his poems would be hardly possible. He often attempts, under the lad of a mistaken theory, to give poetical interest to themes which lie entirely out of the domain of poetry. He has no humor, and no sense of the ludicrous; and many of his poems are obnoxious to the attack of ridicule.

But, on the other hand, there are very great and enduring excellences. Among these are most careful precision and accuracy of diction, a minute acquaintance and deep sympathy with nature, power and tenderness in the expression of the domestic affections, a philosophical insight into the workings of the human soul, lofty dignity of sentiment, and, in his best passages, a serene, imaginative grandeur akin to that of Milton.

Wordsworth's character was pure and high. He was reserved in manner, and somewhat exclusive in his tastes and sympathies; but his friends were warmly attached to him. His domestic affections were strong and deep.

His life has been published, since his decease, by his nephew, the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, and republished in this country. In Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, there is an admirable review of his poetical genius, in which praise is bestowed generously and discriminatingly, and defects are pointed out with a loving and reverent hand.]

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Eddying round and round, they sink
Softly, slowly; one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy, hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute
In his wavering parachute.

But the kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches paws, and darts First at one and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow! There are many now; now one; Now they stop, and there are none; What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger leap half way

How she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again!

How she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjurer!

Quick as he in feat of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands, with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care

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Here, for neither babe nor me,
Other playmate can I see.
Of the countless living things
That with stir of feet and wings,
In the sun, or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade,
And with busy revellings,
Chirp, and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale, so blithe a place,
Multitudes are swept away,
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighborhood;
And, among the kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colors bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple tree;

Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;

Hung, head pointing towards the ground, —

-

Fluttered, perched into a round,

Bound himself, and then unbound;

Lithest, gaudiest harlequin;

Prettiest tumbler ever seen;

Light of heart and light of limb;

What is now become of him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went

Frisking, bleating merriment,

When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.

If

you

look to vale or hill,

If you listen, all is still,

Save a little neighboring rill
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain ;
Vainly morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy;
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gayety?

LXXIII.—THE PLAY AT VENICE.

ANONYMOUS.

[This story rebukes in a striking and dramatic manner the injustice of national prejudice. There are one or two considerations to be borne in mind by the reader.

In the first place, it was written many years ago, while Venice was yet an independ ent state, and before Germany had produced the great number of scientific and liter ary men who, during the present century, have done her so much honor. At the present time, no one would think it worth while to write a story in order to vindicate the intellectual claims of Germany.

In the next place, in order to make the lesson more effective, the contrast between the Germans and the Italians is somewhat caricatured, to the disadvantage of the latter. Italy has declined from her former state, but she does produce better things than dancing dogs.]

SOME years since, a German prince, making a tour of Europe, stopped at Venice for a short period. It was the close of summer; the Adriatic was calm, the nights were lovely, and the Venetian women in the full enjoyment of those delicious spirits that, in their climate, rise and fall with the coming and the departure of the finest season of the year. Every

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