of Canning, Vol. II. pp. 46, 47.

[94] Canning, Speeches, Vol. VI. pp. 108, 109.

[95] In the original text of Alaman this is printed in large capitals,
and it is explained in a note as said by Lucan in his Pharsalia, with
regard to Pompey.

[96] Alaman, _Historia_, Tomo V. pp. 954, 955.

[97] By Jonathan M. Sewall, in an epilogue to Addison's tragedy of
"Cato," written in 1778 for the Bow Street Theatre, Portsmouth, N. H.

[98] Jefferson's Works, Vol. V. p. 444.

[99] Jefferson's Works, Vol. V. p. 444.

[100] Ibid., Vol. VII. p. 316. See also pp. 288, 299.

SUNSHINE AND PETRARCH.

Near my summer home there is a little cove or landing by the bay, where
nothing larger than a boat can ever anchor. I sit above it now, upon the
steep bank, knee-deep in buttercups, and amid grass so lush and green
that it seems to ripple and flow instead of waving. Below lies a tiny
beach, strewn with a few bits of driftwood and some purple shells, and
so sheltered by projecting walls that its wavelets plash but lightly. A
little farther out, the sea breaks more roughly over submerged rocks,
and the waves lift themselves, ere breaking, in an indescribable way, as
if each gave a glimpse through a translucent window, beyond which all
ocean's depths might be clearly seen. On the right side of my retreat a
high wall limits the view, while on the left the crumbling parapet of
Fort Greene stands out into the foreground, its grassy scarp so relieved
against the blue water, that each inward-bound schooner seems to sail
into a cave of grass. In the middle distance is a white lighthouse, and
beyond lie the round tower of old Fort Louis and the soft low hills of
Conanicut.

Behind me an oriole chirrups in triumph amid the birch-trees which wave
around the house of the haunted window; before me a kingfisher pauses
and waits, and a darting blackbird shows the scarlet on his wings. From
the mossy and water-worn stones of the fort the bright-eyed rats peep
out, or, emerging, swim along the beach, with a motion made graceful, as
is all motion, by contact with the water. Sloops and schooners
constantly come and go, careening in the wind, and their white sails
taking, if remote enough, a vague blue mantle from the delicate air.
Sailboats glide in the distance,--each a mere white wing of canvas,--or
coming nearer, and glancing suddenly into the cove, are put as suddenly
on the other tack, and almost in an instant seem far away. There is
to-