The muster of men at the barrack-door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers

Marching down to their boats on the shore. [Church,
Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead.

4. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,

Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;

5. But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and somber, and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

6. A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, thro' the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by the steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

7. It was twelve by the village clock,

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
It was one by the village clock,

When he rode into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

8. You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled,-
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

9. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.

LESSON XIX.

THE ESKIMOS AND THEIR FROZEN LAND.

PART FIRST.

Es' ki mōş, inhabitants of the In-çip'i ent, beginning; as, the

Priş mǎt'ie, relating to a prism; made up of the seven colors into which light is resolved in passing through a prism. Cor'us ea'tions, flashes of light.

incipient light of day. Gla'cial, pertaining to ice, or its action; icy.

Steppe, an elevated plain or prai

Měd'ley, a mixture; a mingled and confused mass of things. An'i ma'ted, full of life; vigorous; lively.

Ŏs'çil la'tions, movements Em ́e rald, of a rich green color,

backward and forward.

Myr'i ads, immense numbers.

THE

like the emerald.

HE Eskimos are a strange people. Their character and their condition, the one of necessity growing out of the other, are peculiar. First, it is claimed for

them that they are the anomalous race of Americathe only people of the New World clearly identical with any race of the Old.

2. Then they are more confined to the sea-shore than any other people in the world. The linear extent of their occupancy, all of it a narrow seaboard averaging scarcely one hundred miles in width, is estimated at not less than five thousand miles. Before them is a vast, unknown, icy ocean, upon which they scarcely dare venture beyond sight of land; behind them are hostile mountaineers ever ready to dispute encroachment.

3. Their very mother earth, upon whose cold bosom they have been borne age after age through countless generations, is sheathed in almost impenetrable, thawless ice. Their days and nights, and seasons and years, are not like those of other men. Six months of day succeed six months of night: three months of sunless winter; three months of nightless summer; six months of glimmering twilight.

4. About the middle of October begins the long night of winter. The earth and sea put on an icy covering; beasts and birds depart for regions sheltered or more congenial; humanity huddles in subterraneous dens; all nature sinks into repose. The little heat left by the retreating sun soon radiates out into the deep blue realms of space; the temperature sinks rapidly to forty or fifty degrees below freezing; the air is hushed, the ocean calm, the sky without a cloud.

5. An awful, painful stillness pervades the dreary solitude. Not a sound is heard; the distant din of busy man, and the subdued hum of the wilderness, alike are wanting. Whispers become audible at a considerable distance, and the insupportable sense of loneliness oppresses the inexperienced visitor.

6. Occasionally the aurora borealis flashes out in prismatic coruscations, throwing a brilliant arch from east to west: now in variegated oscillations, changing through all the various tints of blue, green, violet, and crimson; darting, flashing, or streaming in yellow columns, upwards, downwards; now blazing steadily, now in wavy undulations; momentarily lighting up in majestic grandeur the cheerless, frozen scenery, only to fall back dead and extinguished-leaving a denser gloom.

7. In January, the brilliancy of the stars is dimmed perceptibly at noon; in February, a golden tint rests upon the horizon at the same hour; in March, the incipient dawn broadens; in April, the dozing Eskimo rubs his eyes and crawls forth; in May, the snow begins to melt, and the impatient grass and flowers arrive as it departs.

8. In June, the summer has fairly come. Under the incessant rays of the never-setting sun, the snow speedily disappears, the ice breaks up, the glacial earth softens for a depth of one, two, or three feet; circulation is restored to vegetation, which, during winter, had been stopped,—if we may believe Sir John Richardson, even the largest trees freezing to the heart.

9. Sea, and plain, and rolling steppe lay aside their seamless shroud of white, and a brilliant tint of emerald overspreads the landscape. Awakened Nature, with one resounding cry, leaps up and claps her hands for joy. Flocks of birds, lured from their winter homes, fill the air with their melody; myriads of wild fowls send forth their shrill cries; the moose and the reindeer flock down from the forests; and from the resonant sea, with the music of unfettered waters, comes the noise of spouting whales and barking seals.

10. And this so lately cheerless, dismal region, blooms