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state of life, luxury and ambition exist? If any woman be destitute of jewels, she is poor, and looks with envy on one more fortunate than herself, who perhaps has the worth of half a crown round her neck; and she who has a few glass beads, or some sort of coarse coral, a couple of silver brooches, or rings on her arms and legs, is considered as truly rich and great. Some of them are as complete coquettes in their way as any to be seen in the capitals of Europe.

When a young man wants to marry, he goes to the father of the intended bride, and agrees with him what he is to pay for her. This being settled, so much money is to be spent on the wedding-day feast. To set up housekeeping nothing is requisite but two or three earthen pots, a stone to grind meal, and a mat, which is the bed. The spouse has a gown and jewels of her own; and, if the bridegroom present her with a pair of bracelets of silver, ivory, or glass, she is happy and fortunate indeed.

The house is ready, without rent or taxes. No rain can pass through the roof; and there is no door, for there is no want of one, as there is nothing to lose. They make a kind of box of clay and straw, which, after two or three days' exposure to the sun, becomes quite hard. It is fixed on a stand, an ap'erture is left to put all their precious things into it, and a piece of mummy-case forms the door. If the house does not please them, they walk out and enter another, as there are several hundreds at their command; I might say several thousands, but they are not all fit to receive inhabitants.

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LESSON XLI.

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition, London.— NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy,
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune;

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect,

To whom should we assign the sphinx's fame ?
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade,
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my struggles Are vain;-Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles.

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,

Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :-
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended;

New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head

When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold :-
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,

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And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled :Have children climb'd those knees, and kissed that face? What was thy name and station, age and race? Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!

Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever? O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue; that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

LESSON XLII.

Green River.-BRYANT.

WHEN breezes are soft, and skies are fair,
I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their stain to the wave they drink.
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue,

Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright
With coloured pebbles, and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where the eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away;
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root;

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,

stone.

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.
O, loveliest there the spring days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;

The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air,
And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat,
To bathe in those waters so pure and sweet.

Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side,
But windest away from haunts of men,
To silent valley, and shaded glen.
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely-save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ;
Or haply some idle dreamer like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed;
And thy own wild musick, gushing out
With mellow murmur, or fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way.
That fairy musick I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade, or flashing with light,
While o'er thee, the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings;-
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream as it glides along
Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song.
Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
And mingle among the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud;
I sometimes come to this quiet place,
To breathe the air that ruffles thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream;
For, in thy lonely and lovely stream,
An image of that calm life appears
That won my heart in my greener years.

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LESSON XLIII.

The mutual relation between sleep and night.—PALEY.

THE relation of sleep to night appears to have been expressly intended by our benevolent Creator. Two points are manifest; first, that the animal frame requires sleep; secondly, that night brings with it a silence, and a cessation of activity, which allow of sleep being taken without interruption, and without loss. Animal existence is made up of action and slumber: nature has provided a season for each. An animal which stood not in need of rest, would always live in day-light. An animal, which, though made for action, and delighting in action, must have its strength repaired by sleep, meets, by its constitution, the returns of day and night. In the human species, for instance, were the bustle, the labour, the motion of life upheld by the constant presence of light, sleep could not be enjoyed without being disturbed by noise, and without expense of that time which the eagerness of private interest would not contentedly resign. It is happy, therefore, for this part of the creation, I mean that it is conformable to the frame and wants of their constitution, that nature, by the very disposition of her elements, has commanded, as it were, and imposed upon them, at moderate intervals, a general intermission of their toils, their occupations, and their pursuits.

But it is not for man, either solely or principally, that night is made. Inferiour, but less perverted natures, taste its solace, and expect its return, with greater exactness and advantage than he does. I have often observed, and never observed but to admire, the satisfaction, no less than the regularity, with which the greatest part of the irrational world yield to this soft necessity, this grateful vicissitude; how comfortably the birds of the air, for example, address themselves to the repose of the evening; with what alertness they resume the activity of the day.

Nor does it disturb our argument to confess, that certain species of animals are in motion during the night, and at rest in the day. With respect even to them, it is still true, that there is a change of condition in the animal, and an external change corresponding with it. There is still the relation, though inverted. The fact is, that the repose of other animals sets these at liberty, and invites them to their food or their sport.

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