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and the secret died with the parents, as it regarded them; but father and mother bore on their brows until the hour of their departure, as if written with a sun-beam, “ This is my son, who was dead, and is alive again ; who was lost, and is found.” Parents and child have gone long since to their graves, and the story is told to vindicate the ways of God to man.
a lost then
"I blame you not for praising Cæsar 80." The affectionate faithfulness of the dog has been a theme of praise ever since man has recorded a thought of his brain, or spoke of the pulsation of his heart. More than twenty-seven hundred years ago, the great master of epics and novels devoted some of his loveliest pages to ARGUS, the faithful and intelligent dog who owned the wise Ulysses for a master. Homer, who knew human nature as well as any bard, since that day, knew also the character of those friends of man, the dog and the horse. On each he has bestowed some of his most splendid passages. The story of Argus is deeply affecting. He knew his master's voice and step, after an absence of twenty years, when all his subjects had forgotten him, and when even Penelope, the queen of connubial chastity, no longer remembered the person of the husband of her youth, and his old father had lost every trace of the image of his son. I had once a friend like Argus, of equal blood and breed to any royal pack that ever uttered a full mouth cry in the chase, and as affectionate and sagacious a dog as ever hunted for the bewildered traveller among the Alpine snows. He died young, cut off by ruthless
violence, before he could bear witness to the ingratitude of civilized man, by long neglect, as poor Argus did. Since his murder, I have an hundred times read the eloquent biography of Argus, and as often made up my mind to pay a humble ribute to my dog Julius Cæsar. This I shall now attempt, after quoting that noble tribute to Argus, which is to be found in the Odyssey. There has never lived a monarch, warrior, philosopher, or statesman in the annals of time, whose fame is so sweetly embalmed by the Muse, as that of Argus; even great Hector's shade might envy the fame of Argus, and the far-darting Apollo, with the rays of wisdom bursting from his head, has never been brought down among mortals with more poetic beauty than was used to give immortality to the faithful dog of Ulysses. The tribute I pay to Julius Cæsar has neither epic dignity nor mellifluous rhyme; but the virtues of the latter hero will place him along side of him of Ithica, not indeed in history, but in the affections of his master.
"Thus near the gates, conferring as they drew,
Now left to man's ingratitude he lay,
" He knew his lord; he knew, and strove to meet,
• What noble beast in this abandon'd state
'Not Argus so,' (Eumæus thus rejoin'd,)
Jove fix'd it certain, that whatever day
When I was about thirteen years of age, a schoolboy in the country, one bright winter's morning, an Indian of the Oneida tribe, called at my boarding house, for the purpose of obtaining some refreshment on his journey to Philadelphia, then the seat of government. He bore a memorial for remuneration for the services of his tribe during the revolutionary war, and being a chief, was an object of curiosity to the boys of our school; but the Indian was nothing in my view in comparison with his dog. He was one of the largest I had ever seen ; he was tall, and long, broad-chested, and strong, and as fleet as a grey-hound. His color was of a bright yellow, and his head, much larger, but shaped like that of a wolf's. He was grave, although not more than eighteen months old. I made love to the dog at once, and a reciprocal affection seemed to take place; he had found the Indian a hard master. I offered the Indian my silver watch for the dog, which he readily accepted. I took him to my chamber; the Indian told the dog that from henceforth to consider me as his master, and I thought he understood all that was said to him, and rejoiced in being freed from his old master; but however that