XXXVII. THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT. THE spacious firmament on high, The unwearied sun, from day to day, Soon as the evening shades prevail, Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence all "The Hand that made us is Divine." Joseph Addison, XXXVIII. SIMPLE SUSAN. THE dame-school, which was about a mile from the hamlet, was not a splendid mansion, but it was reverenced as much by the young race of village scholars as if it had been the most stately edifice in the land. It was a low-roofed, long, thatched tenement, sheltered by a few reverend oaks, under which many generations of hopeful children had in their time gambolled. The close-shaven green, which sloped down from the hatch-door of the school-room, was paled round with a rude paling, which, though decayed in some parts by time, was not in any place broken by violence. The place bespoke order and peace. The dame who governed here was well obeyed, because she was just; and well beloved, because she was ever glad to give well-earned praise and pleasure to her little subjects. Susan had once been under her gentle dominion, and had been deservedly her favourite scholar; the dame often cited her as the best example to the succeeding tribe of emulous youngsters. Susan had scarcely opened the wicket which separated the green before the schoolroom door from the lane, when she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the little troop issuing from the hatchway, and spreading over the green. "Oh, there's our Susan!" cried her two little brothers, running, leaping, and bounding up to her; and many of the other rosy girls and boys crowded round her to talk of their plays, for Susan was easily interested in all that made others happy; but she could not make them comprehend that, if they all spoke at once, it was not possible that she could hear what was said. The voices were still raised one above another, all eager to establish some important observation about nine-pins, or marbles, or tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard, unusual music, and the crowd was silenced. The music seemed to be near the spot where the children were standing, and they looked round to see whence it could come. Susan pointed to the great oak tree, and they beheld, seated under its shade, an old man playing upon his harp. The children all approached--at first timidly, for the sounds were solemn; but as the harper heard their little footsteps coming towards him, he changed his hand, and played one of his most lively tunes. The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him. Some who were in the foremost row whispered to each other: "He is blind; what a pity!" and "He looks very poor; what a ragged coat he wears!" said the others: "He must be very old, for all his hair is white; and he must have travelled a great way, for his shoes are quite worn out," observed another. All these remarks were made whilst he was tuning his harp, for when he once more began to play, not a word was uttered. He seemed pleased by their simple exclamations of wonder and delight; and, eager to amuse his young audience, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit their several humours. Susan's voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of gentleness and good-nature, caught his ear the moment she spoke. He turned his face eagerly to the place where she stood; and it was observed that whenever she said she liked any tune particularly, he played it over again. "I am blind," said the old man, "and cannot see your faces, but I know you all asunder by your voices; and I can guess pretty well at your humours and characters by your voices." "Can you so, indeed?" cried Susan's little brother William, who had stationed himself between the old man's knees. "Then you heard my sister Susan speak just now. Can you tell us what sort of a person she is?" "That I can, I think, without being a conjuror," said the old man, lifting the boy upon his knee; "your sister Susan is good-natured.” The boy clapped his hands. "And good-tempered." "Right," said little William, with a louder clap of applause. "And very fond of the little boy who sits upon my knee." "Oh, right! right! quite right!" exclaimed the child, and "Quite right!" echoed on all sides. "But how came you to know so much, when you are blind?" said William, examining the old man attentively. "Hush," said John, who was a year older than his brother, and very sage, "you should not put him in mind of his being blind." "Though I am blind," said the harper, "I can hear, you know, and I heard from your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she was goodtempered and good-natured, and fond of you.” "Oh, that's wrong-you did not hear all that from herself, I'm sure," said John, "for nobody ever hears her praising herself." 'Did not I hear her tell you, when you first came round me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she would stay a little while, since you wished it so much—was not that good-natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, but said, 'Then play William's first, if you please.' Was not that good-tempered?" "Oh," interrupted William, "it's all true; but how did you find out she was so fond of me?" "That is such a difficult question," said the harper, "that I must take time to consider." He tuned his harp as he pondered, or seemed to ponder ; and at this instant two boys, who had been searching for birds'-nests in the hedges, and who had heard the sound of the harp, came blustering up, and pushing their way through the circle, one of them exclaimed, "What's going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blind harper; well, play us a tune, if |