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On chairs and benches, round the tent draw
The poor man prays far distant, and, alas! Some, seated by the graves of parents dear, Among the bright blue flowers let fall the little tear.
Sublime the text he chooseth ;-." Who is this From Edom comes, with garments dyed in blood,
Travelling in greatness of his strength to bless, Treading the wine-press of Almighty God?" Perchance the theme, that Mighty One who rode
Forth leader of the armies clothed in light;
Around whose fiery forehead rainbows glow'd; Beneath whose tread Heaven trembled; angels bright
Their shining ranks arranged around his steed of white!
With pathos, next, the pious preacher paints The mournful history of the Man of woe :"Behold the contrast!-Christ, the King of saints,
A houseless wanderer in a world below.
The birds have nests on Summer's leafy bough, The foxes in the mountains find a bed;
But mankind's Friend found every man his foe:
His soul, forsaken by his Father, bled;
He, peaceful like a lamb, was to the slaughter led!"
SUSAN. What a delightful fresh breeze!
Come, Maria, let us get away from the children for half an hour, and go to the beach; a stroll there will do us good after this hot, busy day. O the price of pleasure! I do not think any consideration, but that the children were my own, could have reconciled me to all this toilsome preparation for a feast! Your patience under it I hardly comprehend.
MARIA. No, dear Sister! when the children are yours: besides, maiden aunts are proverbially fond fools; and then, you know, my father expects his grandchildren to be made happy in their own way, when he comes ashore, so I could do no less than help. But, as you say, a stroll will refresh us: we must not go too far from the garden, though.
SUSAN.-Down at our favourite rock we shall be within call, and there we may sit and listen to the sea's music, which Ossian compares to the memory of departed friends-sweet and mournful to the soul: besides, we can there build castles as magnificent as we like; and there will be no wise body to blow them down, as our governess used to do when we were girls.
MARIA. That will be a refreshment indeed! Dear Susan, how long it is since we built our last!
SUSAN.-Ay; and you had the last turn; so I will build one for you now: you shall write a book of English Synonymes, like the Abbé Girard's.
MARIA. That is a castle in the air indeed :— no, I never expect to see a good book on English Synonymes. If it were undertaken, it would probably be a bookseller's speculation-a job by some hack writer, acquainted with the language only by books, and possessed of but little knowledge of the practical
discourse of good society, its light and evanescent character.
SUSAN. Perhaps you are right: in Girard's time, the art of conversation was one studied for the sake of success in society; and the talent for it gave, in Paris, a sort of rank to the happy possessor. The matter might be frivolous, or even wicked, provided the language and manner were according to the canon of good company: it has never been so with us; so that our scholars have had no opportunity of "qualifying" for the business: still I think that you, who have seen so much of all sorts of English society, and heard every dialect, might do something towards it.
MARIA. I certainly could not, and I can easily tell you why. I will set aside my doubt as to whether our tongue has flexibility and point enough, to define so justly, and epigrammatically, the gradations of meaning, as to make a work, in any hands, equal to that of Girard. But as to myself, I have, as you say, seen all sorts of society; but I have been so little fixed in any, especially that where such a talent could alone