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WITH GENEEAL BftES INTEESPEESEI, AS MADIXO LESSONS, OOMPIIED BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS, SEOEKTAar OK THE PH0TE8TANT BOAED OK EXAMINERS FOtt COMMON SCHOOLS W LOWER CANADA. MonttmU PUBLISHED BY R. & A. MILLER ST. FEANjOia XAVIEE STBEET. 1856. i i PREFACE. The compiler of the following page, Laving felt '" ™'"™°" ^"h «'l>ers, the want of a das, "oolc for reading and reciting, which, whilst it 'hould contain a selection suitable to the require- ments of more advanced Pupil,, „ig,,t from its price be within the reach of all classes of the com- munity, has been induced for the convenience of '"■' *""" *•=''»"'' ««" he trusts for the benefit of his fellow laborers in Canada, to edit this publication, which he now offers to the notice of Tea.: i On the Sublime in Writing Blair'''' ^^ Reflections in Westminster Ahhev' Addi^nn ^^ Virtue. Alan's Highest Interesl^iflr""^^" 18 The Monk narrts. jg On Military Glory. V at'"*"""; 21 Liberty and Slaven". Marmontel. 23 Reynoand Alpin.,... X'^''."" 25 Story of the Siege of Calais ■'- mT";7;"V. 26 On JLiving to Oife's-Self n^i,^/, ^""'"y- 27 On the Plalms....... . ' 1^^^'^*' 32 On the Pleasure of P^liZ ^•""T^-; 33 Damon an^^ ^-^-g..""::>f «!:;:::::.::::• 2? On the Abus/of G;niu;: withRel^"' ""^ ^"«''*'^' ference to the Works of Lo- liyron j, , Advantages of uniting . . , '*^""'^'*- of Manners, v^ith t Mind , - ,, The Elder's Death-bed.... Z^ On Lord Byron's Lines -u,. Field of Waterloo.... , The Perfect Orator "^T'^^' 46 Lord Byron con^fcj--M-7:^^"''- 47 1st, and a Poet v-„ i The Distressed Father Mn ''' -^ 48 OnShaksnearo ¥.'''''}'''9s at Bow Street. 50 34 36 38 40 42 OnShakspeare Z. '^IVH Ch^ter of Napoleon Bonii^t;:^^:- -::::;;;;;;;; ;.^ % i«;,?s"i*i^^«"'"''^"'^«tuv;:^ '••••••• •• 56 59 63 64 -»■ he Hill of Science Adrl' " *>* Efr«3t3 of Sympathy in thyDVstVmes 66 ot Others n , An Exhortation to"ihe 'sludy'of ^''''l"^"*^^ • S...Cicero, 70 71 I -JJL-LJJL'I Vlll CONTKNTS. On the Cuitivation lectual Powers. of the Ineel- The Fallen Leaf.:,:::::::::::::::::::::^--— •••;••• n Happmess z^,-^ ^* PtJ^\"'-" ;••• Blackwood's Magazine. Emphasis, Pauses, and Tones ni„:. ^ trestures 76 Emphasis, pau;;;--andTon;;::::::::Ssr''' ^"^'"""- il ^f>id. 82 Death of Charles the Second. S^l'MacaulayZ'.''''. si Execution of Louis XVI Alison -- School-days of Napoleon fbij Battle of the Pyramids /a,w Battle of the Nile '.'.'.'.'.'.' S Defeat of the Old Guard at Water- 92 94 96 98 luo. .Ibid.. Effects of Steam Navigation ...Ibid Departure of the Reformer Zwingie" for Battle..., ._ D'Aubigne. Death of Zwingle jf,ij Execution of Mary (^ueen of ScoiZ Robertson.'. Abdication of the Emperor Charles V..../iiV/ 102 104 106 107 110 114 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. The Departed Spirits of the Just are Spectators of our Conduct on Earth Finlat/sou ny Time and Manner of the Arrival of ^ I^f th-. i^f^an 1 18 On the Ihreatened Invasion in 1803.^// ul i he Christian Mother Kirwan Christ our Consolation and Relief, under the apprehension of being separated by Death from those ^ we Love.. Logan... i-ntatuation of Mankind, with regard to the Things of Time Kirwan 104 Danger of Delay m Matters of Re- ^ I'gion Logan..., On the Death of the Princess Char- ^«"«-- ••; Hall J^}"o Chalmers The InhniteLove of God ....Ibid J?? Funeral Sermon on the Death of Dr. Thompson Chalmers 138 hitting m the Chair of the Scorner..Zoflara,.. . ioq The Plurality of Worlds not an ar.- gument against the Truth of 122 123 125 127 132 Revelation C/uilmers. Crrists Ago^y , /|... '- The Deluding Influence of "the ^^^ ^" ^ «hort time wear ol these defects, and contract such a smooth andluneful delivery as will recommend whatever you speak Se- condly, abour to avoid the odious custom of couching or spitting while you are speaking ; al if at somf time you cannot wholly avoid it, yet take caravnn^! not stop in the middle'of a sent'en'^e but only a'^^^such delivering. Above nil, take care to vary your voice according to the matter on which you speaL Nothing a'nZernothln' "^' ^'^" "" ^^^^^'^''^ - "^^ «-X! and yet nothing ,s more common. Although this mo- theelcToTlr^,^-""P^r*^"V*° ^^^ ear,b\tdestr";s tne ettect of what is spoken, the best way to learn how to vary the voice is, to observe common discourse taki r "„i!?:Z«".«P-k y?--If in ordinal^ crn;e*rt! " ■"" ""'^ ""icrs speaK un various occasions. After Ue very same manner you are to vary your ;oice "n public, allowing for the largeness of th^ pC, and tie !| SI 4 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS distance of the hearers. The voice may be varied three ways, first, as to height or lowness ; secondly, as to vehemence or softness ; thirdly, as to swiftness or slowness : — And firct, as to height, a medium between the extremes is carefully to be observed. You must neither strain your voice by raising it always to the highest note it can reach, nor sink it always to the lowest note, which would be to murmur rather than to speak. As to vehemence, have a care how you force your voice to the last extremity ; you cannot hold this long without danger of its cracking, and failing you on a sudden ; nor yet ought you to speak in too faint and remiss a manner, which destroys all the force and energy of what is spoken. As to swiftness, you ought to moderate the voice so as to avoid all precipitation ; otherwise you give the hearers no time to think, and so are not likely either to convince or persuade them ; yet neither should you speak slower than men gene- rally do in common conversation. It is a fault to draw out your words too slow, or to make needless breaks or pauses; nay to drawl is (of the two) worse than to hurry ; the speech ought not to drop, but to flow along; but then it ought to flow like a gliding stream^ not as a rapid current. Yet let it be observed, that the me- dium I recommend does not consist in an indivisible point ; it admits of a considerable latitude. As to the height or lowness of the voice, there are five or six notes whereby it may be varied, between the highest and the lowest : so here is abundant room for variation, without falling into either extreme. There is also sufficient room between the extremes of violence and of softness, to pronounce either more veliemently or more mildly, as different subjects may require ; and as to swiftness or slowness, though you avoid both ex- tremes, you may nevertheless speak faster or slower, and that in several degrees, as best answers the subject and passions of your discourse. Hut it should likewise be observed, that the voice ought not to be varied too hastily in any of these respects ; but the difference is to be made by degrees, ari'f. almost insensibly ; too sudden a change being unnatural and affected, and consequently di&jgreeublo to the hearers. If you speak IN PBOSE. 5 of natural things, merely to make the hearers under- stand them, there needs only a clear and distinct voice ; but if you should display the wisdom and power of God therein, do it with a stronger and more solemn accent. The good and honourable actions of men should be described with a full and lofty accent ; wicked and infamous actions, with a strong and earnest voice, and such a tone as expresses horror and detestation. In congratulating the happy events of life, we speak with a lively and cheerful accent j in relating misfortunes, (as m funeral orations) with a slow and mournful one. The voice should also be varied according to the greatness and importance of the subject; it being absurd either to speak in a lofty manner where the subject is of little concern, or to speak of great and important affairs with a low, unconcerned, and familiar voice. On all occasions, let the thing you are to speak be deeply imprinted on your own heart j and when you are sensibly touched yourself, you will easily touch others, by adjusting your voice to every passion which you feel. Love is shewn by a soft, smooth, and melting voice : hate by a sharp and sullen one j joy by a full and flowing one ; grief by a dull, languishing tone ; sometimes interrupted by a sigh or groan. Fear is expressed by a trembling and hesitating voice; bold- ness by speaking loud and strong. Anger is shewn by a sharp and impetuous tone, taking the breath often, and speaking short. Compassion requires a soft and submissive voice. After the expression of any violent passion, you should gradually lower your voice ag-in Keadiness in varying it on all kinds of subjects as well as passions, is best acquired by frequently readin'' or repeating aloud, either dialogues, select plays, or s'lich discourses as come nearest to the dramatic style. You should begin a discourse low, both as it expresses modesty, and as it is best for your voice and strength • and yet so as to be heard by all that are present: you may afterwards rise as the matter shall require. The audience likewise being calm and unmoved at first, are best suited bv a nr~^ — ' '' ^iti^^^^^^Z X.. _ J .1 _ this rule admits of some exceptions, for on some extra- ordinary occasions, you may begin a discourse abruptly I b PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS and passionately, and consequently with a warm and passionate accent. You may speak a little louder in laying down what you design to prove, and explaining it to your hearers. But you need not speak with any warmth or emotion yet ; it is enough if you speak articulately and distinctly. When you prove your point, and refute your adversary's objections, there is need of more earnestness and extension of voice : and here chiefly it is, that you are to vary your voice according to the rules above recited. A little pause may then precede the conclusion, in which you may gradually rise to the utmost strength of pronunciation, and finish all with a lively, cheerful voice, expressing joy and satisfaction. An exclamation requires a loud and strong voice ; and so does an oath or strong asse- veratioHy as O, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! I call God to record upon my soul. In a prosopopoeia, the voice should be varied, according to the characters of the persons introduced ; in an apostrophe, according to the circum- stances of the person or thing to which you address your speech ; which if directed to God, or to inanimate things, ought to be louder than usual. In reciting and answering objections, the voice should be varied, as if two persons were speaking ; and so in dialogues, or whenever several persons are introduced, as disputing or talking together. In a climax, the voice must be gradually raised to answer every step of the figure. In a postopesis, the voice (which was raised to intro- duce it) must be lowered considerably. In an ante- thesis, the points are to be distinguished, and the former to be pronounced with a stronger tone than the latter : but in an anadiplosis, the word repeated is pronounced the second time louder and stronger than the first. Take care never to make a pause in speaking in the middle of a word or sentence ; but only where there is such a pause in the sense, as requires, or at least allows of it. You may make a short pause after every period, and begin the next generally a little lower than you concluded the last i but on ffomp. QrtnooiQrss j. ]j**1a nigher, which the nature of the subject will easily determine. I would likewise advise every speaker to m pRtjsE, 7 observe those who speak well, that he may not pro- nounce any word in an improper manner ; and in case of doubt, let him not be ashamed to ask how such a word should be pronounced ; as also to desire others that they would inform him whenever they hear him pronounce any word improperly. Lastly, take care not to sink your voice too much at the conclusion of a period ; but pronounce the very last words loud and distinctly, especially if they have but a weak and dull sound of themselves. On Study, Studies' serve^ for d; for ornament', is in discourse'; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition' of bu8iness\ For expert' men can execute', and perhaps judge> of particulars, one^ by one'; but the general' counsels* and the plots', and marshaling' of affairs, come' best' from those that are learned'. To spend too^ much time' in studies, is sloth^; to use' them too much for orna- n)ent\ is affectation'; to make judgment wholly' by their' rules, is the humour' of a scholar'. They per- fect' nature', and are perfected' by experience'; for naturab abilities' are like natural plants', that need pruning by stud/; and studies themselves' do give forth directions' too much at large', except they be bounded^ in' by experience'. Crafty' men contemn^ studies, simple' men admire' them, and wise' men use^ them : for they teach not their own' use, but that is a wisdom without' them, and above' them, won' by obser- vation\ Read'— not to contradict' and refute', not to believe' and take for granted', nor to find talk' and discourse'— but to weigh' and consider'. Some' books are to be tasted'; others', to be swallowed'; and some' few , to be chewed' and digested^ that is, some books are to bt read only in parts'; othHr8\ to be read^— but "^?.^" mP"^^^'', ^^^ ^^"'®' ^^'K> ^'^ ^' ^•end wholly, and vvitii dihgence' and attention*. Some books also may be read by deputys and extracts of them made by others'; but that should be only in the less' important 8 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS arguments, and the meaner> sort 0/ books; else dis- tilled' books^ are like common^ distilled waters' — flashy' things'. Reading' maketh a Mh man; conference', a ready' man; and writing', an exact' man. And, there fore, if a man write' little, he had need have a present' wit'; if he confer' little, he had need have a good' memory'; and if he read' little, he had need have much' cunning' to seem' to know' that he doth not.' Bacon, On the Love of Life. Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increas« 8 our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevail- ing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our. nature, and to which even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that part of life which lies before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felicity; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade: hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game. Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon us with our years? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our exis- tence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping? Is it that Nature, attentive to the preserva- tion of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoyments; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips Imagination in the spoils? Life would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded IN PROSE, 9 with infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood; the numherless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery: hut hap- pily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial; and life acquires an ima- j):mary value, in proportion as its real value is no more. Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, from the length of our acquaintance with it. »* I would not choose," savs a French philosopher " to see an old post pulled up, with which I had been long acquainted." A mind long habituated to a cer- tain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of possession— they love the world, and all that it produces; they love life, and all its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Goldsmith. On Gneving for the Dead, We sympathize even with the dead ; and, overlook- ing what is of real importance in their situation— that awful futurity which awaits them— we are chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but can have no influence upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think, to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and conversation; to be laid m the cold grave, a prey to corruption, and the reptiles ot the earth; to be no more thought of in this >^^rld, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of their dearest triends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them now, when they are in danffer oi being iorgot by every body; and,' by the vain honours which we pay to their memory, we endeavour, tor our own misery, artificially to keep alive our me- ^2 I 10 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS lancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation, seems to be an addition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do U unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distresses— the regret, the love, and the lamentations of friends — can yield no comfort to them, serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery. The happi- ness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none of these circumstances; nor is it the thought of these things which can ever dibturb the profound security of th-?ir repose. The idea of that dreary and endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condition, arises altogether from our joining, to the d inge which has been produced upon them, our own consciousness of that change, from our put- ting ourselves in their situation, and from our lodging — if I may be allowed to say so — our own living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving what would be our emotions in this case. It is from this very illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us, and that the idea of these circumstances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain when we are dead, makes us miserable while we are alive. And from thence arises one of the most important principles in human nature — the dread of death; the great poison to the happiness, but the great restraint upon the injustice of mankind; which, while it afflicts and mortifies the individual, guards and protects the society. I)r. Mam SniUh. On Remorse, As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the resentment of the sufFi;rer runs naturally the highf ; so does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can inflict upon another, and e. tes the highest degree of resentment in those who are immediately connected •with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atro- cious of ail crimes which affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and of the person who has IN PROSE. 11 committed it. To be deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of what we have only the expectation. Breach of property, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, there- lore-those whose violation seems to call loudest for vengeance and punishment-are the laws which guard the life and person of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his property and possessions; and ast of all come those which guard what are called Ins personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of others. The violator of the more sacred laws of justice, can never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can enter into none of the motives which influenced it. They appear now as detestable to him, as they did always to oth.r people. By sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must entertain for him, he becomes in some measure the object of his own hatred and abhorrence. Ihe situation of the person who suffered by his injus- thought of It; regrets the unhappy effects of his own conduct; and feels, at the same time, that they have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind, and of what is the natural consequence of resentment-vengeance and punish- Tna filuT- ."^^* ""^ ^^'' PerpetuaUy haunts him, and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but imagines him- sdf as It were rejected, and thrown out from the atf-ections of all mankind. He cannot hope foi the consolation of sympathy, in this his greatest and most dreadful distress: the remembrance of his crimes has shut out all ft^llnw.fppli,,.. ,„:.i, v.:^ p_,_ , ,"^®^ '^^^ Ins fellow-creatures. The sentiments which they enter- tain with regard to him, are the very thing which he i I M 12 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIOiXS is most afraid of; every thing seems hostile; and he would be glad to % to some inhospitable desert, where he might never more behold the face of a human crea- ture, nor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate and disastrous — the melancholy forebodings of incompre- hensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back to society; and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them, loaded with shame, and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate some little protection from the countenance of those very judges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can enter the human breast, the most dreadful. It is made up— of shame, from the sense of the impropriety of past con- duct; of grief, for the effects of it; of pity, for those who duffer by it, and of the dread and terror of punish- ment, from the consciousness of the justly-provoked resentment of all rational creatures. Dr. Adam Smith. Discontent, the common Lot of all Mankind. Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by disgust. Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting measures fo/ a new undertaking. From the iirst hint that wakens the fancy, to the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While preparations are made and materials accumulated, day j^lidas after day through Elyalrm prospects, and the heart dances to the song^of hope. Such is th« pleasure of projecting, that many content IN PROSE. 13 themselves with a succession of visionary schemes: and wear out their allotted time in the calm amuse- ment of contriving what they never attempt or hone to execute. ^ Others— not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas— advance somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand re- searches and consultations, are snatched away by death as they stand waiting for a proper opportunity to If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation : for no sooner are notions reduced to practice, than tran- quillity and confidence forsake the breast ; every day brings Its task, and often without bringing abilities to perform it; difficultiiis embarrass, uncertainty per- p exes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or ne- glect depresses. We proceed, because we have begun • we complete our design, that the labour already spent may not be vain: but as expectation gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are necessitated to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and constancy. When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables Us to endure it is the prospect of its end : for though in every long work there are some joyous inter- vals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental excellencies not comprised in the first ohm ; yet the toil with which performance struggles ^afte^ Idea, IS so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of resting below that perfection which vvo imagined within our reach ; that seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours, than a painful con- VlPtmn nf Ilia i1/U\.^*„ 1 _ _ ,. , ^ . -; : . •; ■•'^^; --^^t ^"»^ » c tmual resutjcitation of desires which he feels himself i. -able to gratify. bo certainly are weariness and vexation the conco- mitants of our undertakings, that every man, in what- 14 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS ever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hone of change. He that has made his way by assiduity and vigilance to public employment, talks among his friends of nothing but the delight of retirement : he whom the necessity of solitary application secludes from the world listens with a beating heart to its distant noises, ongs to mingle with living beings, and resolves, when he can regulate his hours by his own choice, to take his fill of merriment and diversion, or to display hfs abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the plea- sures of distinction and applause. Every desire, however innocent or natural, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to consider any thing as capable of giving happiness. it is not easy to restrain our ardour ; or to forbear some precipitation in our advances, and irregularity in our pursuits He that has long cultivated the tree, watched the svvelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with computing how much every sun and shower added to its growth; scarcely stays till the truit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have di igently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it ; and, because wc have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more IS to be done. All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We never find ourselves so desirous to finish as in the htU •• part of our work ; or so im- patient ot delay, as when we know that delay cannot be long, lart of this unseasonable importunity of discontent may be justly imputed to languor nd weari- ne8S--which must always oppress us more, as our toil has been longer continued : but the greater part usually proceeds from frequent contemplation of that ease which we now consider as near and certain ; and winch, when it has once fiattered our hopes, we cannot suffer to be longer withheld. *^ M^.^u. IN PROSE. 15 On the Sublime in Writing. It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient au- ► thors, that we are to look for the most 8trikin«r in- stances of the sublime. The early ages of the world and the rude unimproved state of society, are pecu- liarly favourable to the strong emotion of sublimity. Ihe genius of men is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is kept glow- ing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost I hey think and express themselves boldly, and with- out restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or Sublimity. Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred bcriptures afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas IS presented to us, in that passage of the XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is des- cribed: "In my distress I called upon the Lord ; he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. ^hen the earth shook and trembled ; the loundations also of the hills were moved, because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness was under his feet : and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky." We see with whnt propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage: " He stood and measured the earth; he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everh sting mountains were scatter- eu ; the perpetual hills did bow. His ways are ever. -• -•••; ■ J^iiuiijs sun- iuee, una iney li'einbleiJ; ti.e overflowing of the water passed by; the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." I 16 PUOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS SI I The noted instance given by Longinus from Moses — *' God said, let there be light ; and there was lights- is not liable to the censure, which was passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true sublime; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives of an exer- tion of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following passage of Isaiah (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 28): *' Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb ; I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself— that saith to the deep, Bo dry, and I will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He is my Shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built ; and to the temple. Thy foundations shall be laid." There is a passage in the Psalmt^ which deserves to be mentioned under this head ; « God," says the Psalmist, « stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the people. The joining together two such grand objects, as the raging of the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there is such resemblance as to form a very natural association in the fancy, and the representing them both as subject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a noble effect. Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, lias been greatly admired for sublimity ; and he owes much of his grandeur to that native and unaffected simplicity, which characterizes his manner. His des- cription of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, th.j rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present, to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often to heighten, in a striking degree, the majesty of his war- like scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that passage, in the XVth Book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot IN PROSE. 17 along the ocean. Minerva arming herself for fight, in the Vth Book ; and Apollo, in the XVth, leading on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his gegis on the face of the Greeks ; are similar instances of great sub- limity, added to the description of battles, by tiie appearance of those celestial beings. In the XXth Book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion ; Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth with his trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake ; tlie earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne in dread, lest the secrets of the infernal regions should be laid open to the view of mortals. The works of Ossian abound with examples of the sublime. The subjects of which that author treats, and thi mann r in which he writes, are particularly favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and vene- rable manner of the ancient times. He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments; but throws forth his images with a rapid conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the greatest force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to look for the graces of correct writing : for just proportion of parts, and skilfully-connected narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage; but amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes— amidst rocks, and torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles— dwells the sublime ; and na- turally associates itself with the grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. "As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so towards each ether approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet, and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark—in battle, met Lochjin and Innis-fail. Chief mixed his strokes ^vith chief, and man with man. Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean, .; i ■-' r 18 ^hen roll the PKOMISCIJOUS SELECTIONS «and waves ti L ^oc^^^ T^' "^ ^^"^^ ^s roll a thou- l^eath raises all his voices\m,^ni ; '""^^ ^^^^^^"• sound of shields. The fioM I^ ' 'i""^ "^'^'^ ^^^^ ^^e as a hundred hammers thaf^^lir'/'""^ '"^"^ to^.'ng, of the furnace. As V nn^ i ^ "?' ""^ the red sun ti- streams of a htnd^e "i" ^.^^ ^«--»- over the heavens or im / ''^'^'V ^'^ ^-^^ ^"^^^^sive shore of the desert-sorn. '^ ^''"" ^^«^"^t« the -ies mixed o^ lenrCS/heX VhT^ '^^' *^? the peop e spre 1 over fl,o i,;ii " r ^™ S™"" of dCT of night when the olt^'' i " '"" '*«thethi,„- thousand ghost" shrilk,/ ^'"'*,'"' ^"'"^ ""d « Never wefe C^rotZeZZZ Kr '^""^ "'"'»•" to heighten the terror orbanle "'"^ '"'?'7^'' ' Blair, of the plaee, and The 'u,e ,o t^' 'l''?:?'''^S'''<>«''"''«' the solemnit; of the buHdin^ !, .^ " " "PP"*''' "''th people who lie in it are an £' fin"!."" '■™'"*'°'' "^ *e of raelancho y, or r«h^f ,1 *"''^^ '"'""' "^th a kind disagreeable ^ I ve,..l/ "'<"'S'"f''lne33, that is not in the X;ch.yarr.h7r'f ''■''''''<''<' ''ft''™oon amusing myseFf ^w ,h ,h„ f^T""' """' «''« ohurch; that I n1e"wi'h i^ ho 1 .. " V°"'?' ""'' '""'^riptions Most of .hemtco^dedl I^^tS'-r,;; '¥/ead. fion, but that hp waa k^ ^ t"*^ buried per- upon anotteLthe whole M,,"'"''" .T ,''''-^' ""^ died prehended in those .»n- '^ "'^'"^ '"■" being cora- .0 all manVind 7 lu noX"r':' *'"""^^ "»'»"'"" •era of existence „h^ H^ . '"'''' "P"" ""ese regis- of satire utrt^^ill'!'!:,^'^ "^ marble-as a kind other n,emon-al rf tS 1 ' ,f ?".?" "'"' """' ''^f' "o .hat they die.I ' """ ""'J' *•■■•« ''orn, and withTe7.^r*;i;'r "r'""!;' ' ™.'^^""-'' -^-'f r.,11 ^ i. ">b'"g ot a grave; and saw in Pvpr., oi./..,.i r"l,:\." ^"«^ ^-'^ thrown up, the fracrments of Thnn'" ntermix.d wi.h a iind of a^f^mfulderh;' or IN PRO? . J9 earth, that some time or other had a place in the com- position of a human body. Upon this, I began to con- aider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together, under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; — how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and oreben- daries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass ; — how beauty, strength, and youth ; with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter ! I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds, and gloomy imaginations: but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy; and can therefore take a view of Nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with objects which others con- sider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out: When I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb- stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow : When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by ^ide, or the holy men that divided the world with their con- test and disputes— I reflect, with sorrow and astonish- ment, on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind : When I read the several dates of the tombs— of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago -I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appear- ance together I Addison. Virtue, Man's Hiyhest Interest I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense unknown expansion. Where am I? What sort of a place do I inhabit? la 20 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS if of n^v T 1 ^? ^ "^^^' ^""^^^^'^ V animals, either of my own kmd, or a different? Is every thii^ sub- No-nothing hke it-the farthest from it possible The world appears not, then, originally made for tT; f:7tTar'-i:r'' '' "^^ alone?-It-l"s tr But IS It no possible so to accommodate it, by my own nar- t.cular mdustry?-If to accommodate nfan anTbeast possible. What consequence then follows? or can there be any other than this?-If I seek an interest of est vvhich IS chimerical, and can never have existence at a^r fT'hr^' I determine? Have I no i« ?tlo 7 \^^^^ "''*' ^ ""^ * ^ool for staying here- t^s a smoky jiouse, and the sooner out of iUhe\etter* But why no interest? Can I be contented with none joined" witT'tt '°' 'r^^'^'- '' ^ social interesi joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be rn^nn'^-i ^^' ^''' '^'' ^^^^^^' '^"^ the tribes of herd! ing animals, are enough to convince me that the thing lTtTt7 f ^^^1 P-«'b^^^ 1^-. then, am I assured ii . n f ^^"'"^ *^"^ of «^an? Admit it: and what lollows? If so, then honour and justice a e my n eres ; then the whole train of moral virtues are Sy nterest: without some portion of which, nofev^n thieves can maintain society. But farther s iU-I sZ not here~I pursue this social interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind as dispersed throughout the earth-! Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of t^rti; ^ ^^-^--'-^l-tei'coLe of ar^s'andL?- pate? '''''"'"''" "^'"'*' ""^ ""^'"^ ^« ^" P^rtici- Again— I must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not :i-!?!!^' „!!l ^^;?---/ *« *.h^ ver^Lth itsetfMo ^h^ n ..„„. =„,, irom wnose beams I derive vigour? to th^t stupendous course and order of the infinite host of IN PROSE. 21 heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on? "Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on Ibis common general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its greater Governor—our common Parent. Harris. The Monk. A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The mo- ment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket — buttoned it up — set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him. There was something, I fear, forbidding in my look : I have his figure this moment before ray eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better. The monk, as I judged from the break in his ton- sure — a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it— might be about seventy; but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them — which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years — could be no more than sixty. Truth might lie between — He was certainly sixty-five: and the general air of his countenance — notwithstanding some- thing seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time — agreed to the account. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted — mild, pale — penetrating; free from all com- mon-place ideas of fat-contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth— It looked forwards; but looked — as if it looked at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, V r /en above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, I st knows: but it would have suited a liramin; and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it. The rest of his, outline may be given in a few I l\ ■■■«■■■■ fif ,ii.. 2^ PIJOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS stands Drpspnt in rv.^ • • enrreatyj and, as it now it losTby T '^ ""^g-Dafon. it gained more th.^ e.il]It"d wt?S f" r" '\^« P-"^'' »"« «'ood bewitched not .0 have bet sTruef wi.l i."!!!!^-^ ""' givTl'f Jnirs^r "' ' "''"' P™-^e'e™i„ed not to ffr,aeclai«„ which are liourl^ made „X„ it "•' """"^ As I pronounced the words "g,ea7cZml" I,„ :/t\fcil'i,teTn'7"""^^^^^^^^^ acknowSe it ,,u r "" ^'•""^ "^ "■« "PP^"!- I matters: but, he true noinTTnl'''''-'''"^ "° S^^"* earned in the world with so Iif.l»^ ^'' f *''? ''°'' ^ order should wish ,0 procure ht.hv"''''^'- """ ^""^ madeiueaW-b=-^r.ru:;?:LnItX^ IN PROSE. 23 own country surely have the first right; and I have left •th« sands in distress upon the English shore. The monk gave a cordial wave with his hand— as much as to say, " No doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent." But we distinguish, said I— laying my hand upon t;.e sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal we dis- tinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour ; and those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plao in life, but to get tlyough it in sloth and ignorance, /br the love of God^ *' The poor Franciscan made no reply. A hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him: he showed none— but letting his staff fall within his arms he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast — and retired. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door "Pshaw!" said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times.— But it would not do! Every ungra- cious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my ima- gination. I reflected 1 had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny himj and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language— I considered his gray hairs— hie courteous figure seemed to re-enter; and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus?— I would have given twenty livres for an advocate—" I have behaved very ill," said I within myself; « but I have only just set out on ray travels, and shall learn better manners as I get ^^«"g-" Steme, On Military Glory. " You will grant me, however," interposed Tiberius, " that there are refined and sensible delights, in their nature proper for the gratification of a monarch, which are alwavs snrp. in n\va i ^^^ ever w s be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint nf tTrn t\r T *.'^ ^."^"^ '"^°*^^' ofcheSc "ower turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile unon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happie? han Ws monarch; from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but be^th, thou great besTower of It! and give me but this fair goddess as my commnTon dl'vin.r'-'^r" '^^ ""^"«' ^^ '' seem g^d unto thy ?or themr '"''' "^'^ ''''''' ^^^^« ^^^^^^ -'« aching Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table- to mvsTfhr ''"' "P^". ^^ '^"^> I begln'^gure rLTT ^ ™''^"®^ ^^ confinement. I was in a ^l^"" '" ^*' ^"' '^ ' ^«- ^"" -Pe to m; iW oJj^^ ^K °^ **" ^^S^° ^'*^ tl^^ "^^"ions of my fellow- creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery but finT notbr^T^^"*^"^ *'^ P'^'"- wa:,Tha't fcou?d. ii fi 26 PHOMIMOUOno 8ELK<;TI0Nrt 1 behold \m body li«H' wp.stpd away with long cxpec- Intion and conHnonicnt; and iblt what kind of fii(;kni;n» fif (ho h»»nrt it in which nrmm from hope (hiforrod. I J -on looking noai'wr, I saw him palo and fovoriBh. If» thirty yoor^ th(i wentorn breexo had not onco fannc-il hia l)l(K)d — hfl had wen no sun, no rn fartheHt corner of hiu dungeon, which was alter- nately liiH chair and ImmI. A little kalendar of small Htieks was laid iit the Imail, notched all over with the dismal days and night» be hud pansed tlierc^ He had one of those little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching unothev day of misery, to add to the hea|). gs, us ho turned bis body to lay hii* little stick ujwn the bundle. — He gave u deep sigh- — 1 saw the iron enter into hi» soul. — I burst into tears. — 1 could not sustain the pic- tuie of conUnom«nt which my bmcy bud drawn. Sfern«, lict/no and ^fpin. li«yno. TnK wind and ruin nro over; culm is the noon of day. Thucleuda are divided in heaven; over the greiui bills Hies the inconstant sun; red, Hirougli the stony vale, comes down the stream of the bill. — Sweet are thy murmurs, O streum ! but more sweet is the voico I bear. — It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. — Bent is his bead of age, and rod his tearful eye. — Alpin, thou son of song, why aU>no on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as A blast in the w«H>d — as a wave on the lonely shore? ai..:. iti. i\ 13 \j nxr.j r'siui arc lur iiuj J I urau~ -iin voice for the inhobitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among (he sons of the plain — Bui IN PKOSK. long ex pec- I of fii(;krii;n» po (1(! Purred, bvoriah. In onco fanned in ull tliiit lan broatliod ro my heart mill another little straw h WHS alter- lar of small viir with the TO. He had yvith a rusty •y, to add to he had, he ■then eiiHt it his work of h>gH, UH ho the bundle. Iter into hi» ain the pio- rawn. Sfern0. calm is the eavenj over ud, Hirougli ' the hill.— ore Hweet is ), the son of head of age» on of song, neHt thou as dy shore? "; urau — -sTiy 'all thou art plain — Bui 27 thou Shalt fall like Morarj and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. 'J'he hills shall know thee no more, thy bow Hliall he in the hall unstrung. Thou wert swift, O Morarl as a roe on the hill— terrible ns a meteor of fire Thy wrath was as the storm— thy sword, in battle, as lightning in the field. Ihy voice was like a stream after rain— like thunder on distant hills Many fell by thy arm— they were consumed in the flumes of thy wrath. But wh.n thou didHt return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Ihy lace was like the sun after rain— Ike the moon in the silence of night-calm as the breast of the lake, when the loii.I wind is hushed into repoHe.-_NBrrow is thy dwelling now-dark the place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy grave. O thou who wast so great beforel Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree, with scarce a leaf— long grass whistling in the wind— mark, to the hunter's eye, the grave of he mighty Morarl— Morarl thou art low indeed: thou Jmst no mother to mourn theej no maid with her tears of love: dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan —Who, on his staff, is this? who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes nre galled with tears, who quakes at every step?— . It IS thy father, O Morarl the father of no son, but thee.-— Weep, thou father of Morar! weepj^but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead- low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice-no more awoke at thy call When shaft it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake?- *arewelll thou bravest of men: thou conqueror in the field: but the field shall see thee no more; nor the gloomy wood be lightened with the splendour of thy fiteel Ihou hast left no son— but the song shall preserve thy name. 7>,^,.^,,^ Start/ of the Siege of Calais. Edwakd III after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a manner, that oil the efforts of France proved ineffectual 2a PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS i l\i to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city. The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant gover- nor, made an admirable defence. France had now put the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, with his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At length, famine did more for Edward than arms. After suffer- ing unheard-of calamities, they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle; and, after a long and desperate engagement. Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and the citizens who survived the slaughter retired within their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he per- mitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the imputation of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of >the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him six of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, consternation and pale dismay were impressed on every countenance. To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly: — "My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either yield to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror, or give up our tender infants, our wives, and daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of delivering up those who have suflfered every misery with you, on the one hand, or the deso- lation and horror of a sacked city, on the other? Ther© is one expedient left! — a gracious, an excellent, a god- like expedient left! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a •... r».x.« 4.1.-4. T» i-_ _/«r 1 . ;. only Son for the salvation of mankind." — He spoke {—. but a universal silence ensued. Each man looked m PRosu. 29 around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity which all wished to approve in themselves, though they wanted the resolution. At length St. PieiTe resumed: «T doubt not but there are many here as ready, nay, more zealous of this martyrdom than I can be; though the station to which I am raised by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be. the first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it freely I give It cheerfully. Who comes next?"—" Your son,'' exclaimed a youth not yet come to maturity.— "Ah! my child!" cried St. Pierre; "lam then twice sacrificed.— But no; I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality! Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes." -—" Your kinsman," cried John de Aire.—" Your kinsman," cried James Wissant.- " Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissant.— "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Walter ■^T^.^?,""^*!^'^ '"*° *^*^«' " why was not I a citizen ot Calais I* The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers who were now e. ulous of so ennobling an example. The key« ot the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the SIX prisonners into his custody; then ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attend- ants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their fami- lies, through the camp of the English. Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take the last adieu of their deliverers. What a parting! what a scene! they crowded with their wives and children about St. Pierre and his fellow- prisoners. They em- braced; they clung around; they fell prostrate before them: they groaned ; they wept aloud; and the joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard through nt the English camp. The English, by this time, were apprized of what passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamen- tation, and their souls were touched with pomna«M.«n 1..1CI. oi uie soldiers prepaivd a portion of his own ilw. * welcome and entertain the half- famished inhabitants; and they loaded them with aa rauch as Jl ill 30 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS their present weakness was able to bear, in order to supply them with sustenance by the way. At length, St. Pierre and his fellow-victims appeared, under^the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emptied. The soldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire, this little band of patriots, as they passed. They bowed to them on all sides; they murmured their applause of that virtue which they could not but revere, even in enemies; and they regarded those ropes, which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter. As soon as they had reached the presence, " Mauny,'* says the monarch, " are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?"— "They are," says Mauny: "they are not only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in the act of ennobling."—" Were they delivered peacea- bly? says Edward: "Was there no resistance, no commotion among the people?"— "Not in the least, my Lord: the people would all have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these to your Majesty. They are self-delivered, self-devoted; and come to offer up their inestimable heads as an ample equivalent for the ransom of thousands." Edward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter; but he knew the privilege of a British subject, and suppressed his re- sentment. " Experience," says he, " has ever sh -n, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indispensably necessary to compel subjects to submission by punishment and example.— Go," he cried to an officer, " lead these men to execu- tion." At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard throughout the camp. The Queen had just arrived with a powerful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive Her Majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respecting the si^ vic- tims. As soon as she had boen welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience—" My Lord,' IW PROSE. 31 said slie, "the question I am to enter upon, is not touching the lives of a few mechanics—it respects the lionour of the English nation; it respects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king. You think you have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, my Lord, they hav« sentenced themselves; and their exe- -cution would be the execution of their own orders not the orders of Edward. The stage on which they would suffer, would be to them a stage of honour; but a stage of shame to Edward— a reproach to his con- .t course with them, commune with rocks, and tret , » rivers; fly from the moral region of sublimity and beauty, to the deaf, voiceless, sight- less, heartless department of the merely physical one. Knowles, Advantages of uniting Gentleness of Manners, with Firmness of Mind, I MENTfONED to you. Some time ago, a sentence which I would most earnestly wish you always to retain in your thoughts, and observe in your oondnct ; it is suaviter in modo, fortiter in re. I do not know any one rule lo unexceptionably useful and necessary in every part of life. I lift Sflftltif^f in Ktnnttn tAr^v^n ...... 1.1 J a_ J _--_ >.. ......j..^ aj-_-:jc, rruuiu ucgCIICUlU aiHj sink into a mean, timid complaisance, and passiveness, if not supported and dignified by the fortiter in re i % IN PROSE. 41 which would also run into impetuosity and brutality, if not terrpered and softened by the suaviter in modo: however, they are seldom united. The warm, choleric man, with strong animal spirits, despises the suaviter in modo, and thinks to carry all before him by the fortiter in re. He may, possibly, by great accident, now and then succeed, when lie has only weak and timid people to deal with; but his gt leral fate will be, to shock, offend, be hated, and fail. On the other hand, the cunning, crafty man, thinks to gain all his ends by the suaviter in modo only : he becomes all things to all men ; he seems to have no opinion of his own, and servilely adopts the present opinion of the present person ; he insinuates himself only into the esteem of fools, but is swn detected, and surely de- spised by every body else. The wise man— who dif- fers as much from the cunning, as from the choleric man — alone joins the suaviter in modo with the fortiter in, re. If you are in authority, and have a right to com- mand, your commands, delivered suaviter in modo^ will be willingly, cheerfully, and — consequently — ^well obeyed ; whereas, if given only fortiter, that is, bru- tally, they will rather, as Tacitus says, be interpreted than executed. For my own part, if I bade my foot- man bring me a glass of wine, in a rough, insulting manner, I should expect, that, in obeying me, he would contrive to spill some of it upon me ; and, I am sure, I should deserve it. A cool, steady resolution should show, that, where you have a right to command, you will be obeyed ; but, at the same time, a gentle- ness in the miinner of enforcing that obedience, should make it a cheerfi 1 one, and soften, as much as possible, the mortifying consciousness of inferiority. If you are to ask a favour, or even to solicit your due, you must do it suaviter in modo, or you will give those, who have a mind to refuse you either, a pretence to do it, by resenting the manner ; but, on the other hand, you must, by a steady perseverance:, and decent tcnaciouaness, show the fortiter in re. In short, this precept is the only way I know in the world, of be'n^ loved, without being despiied ; and feared, without 42 li '• i: ruOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS hekitr hnted. It constitutes that dignity of character ^h,ch every wise man „,„st endeavour t^o estaS If. therefore, you find, that you have a hastiness in your temper, which unguardedly breaks out into indis- creet salhe.-, or rough expressions, to either your su- periors, your equals, or your inferiors; watch i^nar- rowly. check it carefully, and call the s:av^tinZdo ileJ:t'Tiir'''""'" .'* '^^ '^^' '"^P"^«« «f P««-on, be silent, till you can be soft. Labour even to get the command of your countenance so well, that^ thos^ emotions may not be read in it-a most unspeakS advantage in business! On the other Cd,Tet „o complaisance, no gentleness of temper, no weak desire of pleasing, on your part ; no wheedling, coaxing, nor flattery, on other people's; make you ?;oede of; loJ from any point, that reason and prudence have bid you pursue: but, return to the charge, persist persevere and you wi!I find most things atfai^Le Ihara'Tos ' ani insulte^d hl"?h *^"^ • ""''^T'^ '' ^^^^y' «b»««d and insulted, by the unjust and the unfeeling; but meekness, when sustained by the Jbrtiter in r. is al- ways respected, commonly successful. In your friend- ships and connections, as well as in your enmities this rue IS particularly useful-letyour/rmneLTn^vVour same tTme'tt""*' attachments to you; but. atT same t me, let your manner prevent the enemies of your friends and dependants from becoming youTle your enemies be disarmed by the gentlenfsJ of Vur manner; but. let them feel, at the same time Z steadiness of your just resentment; for. theTe is a great difference between bearing malice~wS is al! ways ungenerous-and a resolute self-defence-which 18 always prudent and justifiable. I conclude with this observation, That gentleness of manners, with firmness of mind, is a short^^t Til description of human perfeotion, on this side of relN gious and moral duties. ae.ier/eld. The Elder^g Death-bed. litT' !^^ ^'^'^ ^"*''''' *''*« ^^'•««"^" thee in thy in- fancy, and me in my old age; but. Jamie, forgj not IN PROSE. 48 thou thy father, nor thy mother; for that thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God." The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man ; and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. " Oh ! if my husband knew but of this — he would never, never desert his dying father I" And I now knew, that the Elder was praying on his death-bed for a disobedient and- wicked son. At this affecting time, the Minister took the Family- Bible on his knees, and said, « Let us sing to the praise and glory of God, part of the fifteenth psalm;" and he red, with u tremulous and broken voice, those beauti- ful verses, " Within thy tabernacle, Lord, Who shall abide with thee ? And in thy high and holy hill, Who shall a dweller be ? — " The man that walketh uprightly, And worketh righteousness, And as he thinketh in his heart. So doth he truth express." Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a tall, fine looking man entered, but with a lower- ing and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe- struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair and looked with a ghastly face to- wards his father's bed. When the psalm ceased, the Elder said, with a solemn voice, " My son-— thou art come in time to receive thv father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will happen in this room, before the morning again shine over the Ha^d glen, win thee from the error of thy ways ! Thou art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten." The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with on upbraiding countenance, on the young man, who hau not recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for M 44 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS three years past your shadow has not darkened the Uoo- of the house of God. They who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still small voice—Now is the hour for repentance— that your father's spirit may carry up to Heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved irom the company of sinners !" The young man, with much effort, advanced to the Ded-side, and at last found voice to say, " Father— I am not without the affections of nature— and I hurried home the moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover; and, if I have ever made you unhapoy, I ask your forgiveness-for, though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. J;ather ! I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. 1 ask your forgiveness." "Come near to me, William; kneel down by the bed-side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son— for blindness Is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul,— ay, too much the pride ! for there was not in all the parish such a man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart has since been clianged, (rod may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee-ay, William, when there was none near me— even as David wept for Absalom— for thee, my son, my son !" A long deep groan was the only reply; but the whole body ot tl e kneeling man was convulsed ; and it was easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner voice, and auslerer countenance than were natural to him, " Know you whose hand is now lying on your rebellious head ? But what signifies the word father to Inm who has denied God, the Father of us all ?" "Oh! press him not too hardly," said his weeping .. ., -...„.., .,g ,.^.,„^^^ ^^.J^.^ ^ g,jj.j- gopn^p ^^j y,y room, wliere she tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame. « Spare, oh ! spare my husband— He has I' IN PR08B. 45 ever been kind to me;" and, with that, she knelt down beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully, and affectionately laid across his neck. <♦ Go thou, likewise, my sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at once, and with one yearning prayer." The child did as the solemn voice commanded, and knelt down some- what timidly by his father's side ; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his arm, tiie child too much neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infi- delity. " Put the word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read aloud to hie dying father, the 25th, 26th, and 27th verses of the eleventh chapter of the Gospel according to St. John." The Pastor went up to the kneelers, and, with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said, "There was a titoe when none, William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst thou— can it be that the son of my friend hath forgot- ten the lessons of his youth?" He had not forgotten them — There was no need for the repentant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The ^acred stream of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life r And whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this ? She said unto him. Yea, Lord: I believe thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world." " That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man, triumphantly ; " nor, William, hast thou an un- believer's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read, and thy father will die happy ?" " I do believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven." The Elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. Hii. faded eyes kindled— his pale cheeks glowed— his palsied hand seemed to wax strong— and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime. " Into thy hands, O God ! I commit my spirit ;" and, so saying, he gently 46 i i! i w PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS sunk back on his pillow; and I thought I heard a sigh. ^.t^^u ""^^ /"i " ^?°^ ^^^P «^^^°«« J and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their knees. The 2n^ f r f "^^^^ *"''"^d towards the white placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest , and, without lamentat,ons-save the silent lamenlations frilson. On Lord Byron's Lines upon the Field of Waterloo Here is the verj cunning of the poet-one train of Ideas excited to prepare you for receiving, in its full thrown* ' "^r^ '^ '}''' "PP°^^^^- Th; ball-room thrown open to youj beauty and chivalry, in all the to voir ff!^"* f '"^' ^''''' '^' ^''''^' h«"^' presented to you; the voluptuous swell of music awakened for you ; your senses, your imagination, and your affections, ZZ AT^^r""'' ^"^ ^°^"g^« of sweetness, and grace, and loveiness, and joy-to strike you aghast with alarm, to bring trepidation and terror before you in their most appalling shapes and attitudes. The whole scene, as by the waving of an enchanter's wand, changed m a moment! For smiles, tears; for blushes paleness; for meetings, partings; for the assembly, the muster; for the dance, the march; foi the music the cannon; for the ball-room, the battle-field! This is one of the most favourite feats of poetry, and occurs frequently in the works of all greaLasI^rs ?t is a means by which they provoke that agitation and hurry of spirits, which enable them to take possession of their leaders; and which consists in bringing contraries into sudden collision The luxuriant valley opens upon "he sterile heath; the level plain borders upon theCged mountain; you walk in imagined security, and find yourself upon the brink of an abyss; you fall asleep with the languor of the calm, and awaken with the fury of the tempest! Campbell soothes the appreh^n- siorr. of Gertrude-places Albert and his inSng family i„ their lighted bower, prolonging the joy of converse-when Outalissi rushes in to tell th«m. .L* witn all his nowlmg— desokting band I" IN PROSE. 47 Ihorason avails himself of the serenity of a placid summer's day, and the security and calm of reauited happy communing love-to introduce the t^et' whose lightning strikes Amelia to the earth! a blaok ened corse! Milton works up his inferna hero to h; highest pitch of demoniac exultation, to prepare his ear for the dismal, universal hiss, that aptl/gmdat' his triumph-extends, expands him into ^hl flu dimensions of monarchal pride, to throw him down i reptile, upon the floor of Pand'emoniuml Shatr^re prepares a feast for the reception of the ghost of Ban! quo-brings the exultation and the agony of tri urn P^^ant guilt, into immediate contact- efSs to us^J ng w TnTi'"' v""' ^^"^ p^^«-' ^^^^o:;:' lug King, and the grovelling murdprprf nr> ;., *u tragedy of Hamlet, makes thf gTve diglX'aro t prelude to the dirge of Ophelial "^^" Ztfj. The Perfect Orator. o.,u- ^1 ^''"'^ uwiui sucn a meetine! how vast th*. subject .'-Is man possessed of talents adearte to h« great occasion ?-Adequate I Yes sudS R lu f:Z^Zt^'^ ^ aug^:t^iro7;he asl ^^ if the subtct fo"r r '^t!m' ""''''''' ^"^ '^' importance Hnn f ^- •^! ,' ^^ " '^^'^^» superseded by the admira- ^on of his talents.- With what strength of argument me neart, does he assault and subiuffate thn «,)..>i« tiZ' ",?'',•.'" "™?- "^Ptivate his reasinf his iLff nt tion and his passions! To effect fhi« m,,..T*' If utmost effort of the most impfoved wLt^ of h "" eS to-us^h r ?'pi"ch "i,rr r- ""! " ""^ are at work, alfh's e "ter»al L«V T"'"^ P"""" Within. ,!,„ J,L"L*. T'"*'' '«*"fy ">eir energies. passronl/are i;Frbuil/°'iMf "7' **« J "''ST"*' ^ •''<' nerve is »,«^.Jj ousy. without, every muscle, every nerve is exerted; not » feature, not a limb, but speaks \A ^ III m-i 49 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of the mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously vibrate those energies from soul to soul Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a multitude; by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass — the whole assembly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but one voice. — The universal cry is Let us march against Philip, let us fight for OUR liberties — let us conquer OR DIE ! Sheridan. Lord Byron considered as a Moralist, and a Poet. As a moralist, Lord Byron is most exceptionable. There is not a more prolific source of positive virtue, than the habit of feeling benevolently towards our fellow-creatures. This he endeavours to cut up by the root. ' There is nothing of benignity, or even of urbanity, in his writings; all his sourness and harsh- ness, a perpetual dreariness, sterility, that puts foith no medicinal shoot or cheering flower. So far as the kindly movements of i ae heart are concerned, among his species, Lord Byron is a rock; and among rocks only, a u,an. His works are not absolutely destitute of touches of virtuous emotion; but those that occur, tre never of the social kind, unless you allow some few traits of merely animal affection. Lord Byron's morality counsels you to relax the grasp of friendship, to withhold the trust of confidence, to shut out your fellow from your heart, and lock it upon him. But, putting aside the tone of misanthropy which pervades his writings, how chaotic an idea does he give you of the government of his own mind, when he dedicates to his daughter the song in which he celebrates his mis- tress; when he can find no more fitting office for the hand of a parent, than that of imprinting upon the mind of a daughter, the indulgent position, that a woman may surrender her honour, and preserve her purity! We do not pretend to scan the real character of Lord Byron. We know nothing of him, hut what we learn from his works; and it "is they that are to blame, if we do not profess the most exalted opinion IN PROSE. 49 and a Poet. of him. We slight him upon the warrant of his own hand. There is something perfectly puerile in the sketch that he so repeatedly gives us of his own cha- racter—a man whining forth his private discontents and dishkmgs, vending them, as it were, in every village, town, and city of the empire; making them as notorious, as if they had been committed to the oratory of the town-sergeant. A fatlier, professing the most passionate tenderness for his offspring ; and making her, in the fervour of his love, a gift of the public record of his weakness, caprices, passions, and vices, collected, drawn up, and authenticated by his own paternal hand. As a poet. Lord Byron is the most easy, the most nervous, and— with the exception perhaps of Words- worth—the most original of the day. His verses possess all the flowing property of extemporaneous eloquence. His diction seems to fall into numbers rather than to be put into them. He reminds us of one who has written down his ideas just as they occurred and finds that he has expressed himself in rhyme! No ekeing out of the verse; no accommodatin*' of the sense to the sound; nothing that indicates a looking out for materials; every thing at hand, to be had only for the reaching, and fitting at the first trial. It would savour too much of pedantry, to point out errors of a merely grammatical description; but, it is somewhat singular, that so classical a writer should abound more in solecisms, than all his cotemporaries put together Ihis may be readily pardoned, however, if we take into consideration the rapidity with which he is reputed to compose. In all other respects, Lord Byron is seldom incongruous, rarely redundant, never vapid- otten pathetic, frequently sublime, always eloquent. If once he lays hold of your attention— unless, indeed, it be by some sudden start of displeasure— the chances are against your getting loose again, until he is satis- fied to let you go. Knoivles. I PROMISCUOUS SliLECTlONS The Distressed Father. Henry Nf.wberry. a lad of thirteen years, and Ed- ward Chidley, nged seventeen, were fully committed for trial, charged with stealing a silver tea-pot from the house of a gentleman, in Grosvenor- place. There was nothing extraordinary in the circumstances of the robbery. The younger lad was observed to go down into the area of the house, whilst his companion kept watch, and they were caught endeavouring to conceal the tea-pot under some rubbish in the Five-fields: but the case was made peculiarly interesting by the unso- phisticated distress of Newberry's father. The poor old man, who it seems had been a soldier, and was at this time a journeyman pavier, refused at first to believe that his eon had committed the crime imputed to him, and was very clamorous against the witnesses; "fcut, as their evidence proceeded, he himself appeared to become gradually convinced. He listened with intense anxiety to the various details; and when they were finished, he fixed his eyes in silence, for a second or two, upon his son; and turning to the magis- trate, with his eyes swimming in tears, he exclaimed — I have carried him many a score miles on my knap- sack, your honour!" There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone with which this fond reminiscence was uttered by the old soldier, that every person present, even the very gaoler himself, was aff'ected by it. " I have carried hira many score miles on my knapsack, your honour," repeated the poor fellow, whilst he brushed away the tears from his cheek with his rough unwashed hand, "but it's all over now! — He has done — and — so have I!" The magistrate asked him something of his story. He said he had formerly driven a stage-coach, in the north of Ireland, and had a small share in the proprie- torship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity, he married a young woman with a little property, but failed in business, and, after enduring many troubles, enlisted as a private soldier in the iSth, or Royal Irish Regiment of Foot ; and went on foreign service, taking IN PROSE. 61 •with him his wife and four ciiildren. Henry (the prisoner) was his second son, and his darling pride." At the end of nine years he 'was discharged, in this country, without a pension, or a friend in the world; and coming to London, he, with some trouble, got employed as a pavier, by " the gentlemen who manage the streets at Mary-la-bonne." — '« Two years ago, your honour," he continued, «♦ my -poor wife was wearied out with the world, and she deceased from me, and I was left alone with the children; and every night, after I had done work, I washed their faces, and put them to bed, and washed their little bits o' things, and hanged them o' the line to dry, myself— for I'd no money, your honour, and so I could not have a house- keeper to do for them, you know. But, your honour, I was as happy as I well could be, considering my wife was deceased from me, till some bad people came to live at the back of us, and they were always striving to get Henry amongst them; and I was terribly afraid something bad would come of.it, as it was but poorly I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind to take all my children to Ireland. If he had only held up another week, your honour, we should have gone, and he would have been saved. But now ! " Hero the poor man looked at his boy again, and wept; and when the magistrate endeavoured to console him by observing that his son would sail for Botany Bay, and probably do well there; he replied, somewhat impatiently,—" Aye, it's fine talking, your worship; I pray to the great God he may never sail any where, unless he sails with me to Ireland!" and then, after a moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone ima- ginable, " Doesn't your honour think a little bit of a petition might help him?" The magistrate replied, it possibly might; and added, " If you attend his trial at the Old Bailey, and plead for him as eloquently in word and action as you have done here, I think it would help him still more." " Aye, but then you wont be there, I suppose, will ~ " lamiiiaruy you! liU W 1 lU which is in some degree sanctioned by extreme dis- tress; and wli«n his worship replied that he certainly 52 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS should not be present, he immediately rejoined, " Then — what's the use of it? There will be nobody there who knows me; and what stranger will listen to a poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for crying?" The prisoners were now removed from the bar, to be conducted to prison; and his son, who had wept incessantly all the time, called wildly to him, " Father, father!" as if he expected that his father could snatch him out of the iron grasp of the law: but the old man remained ri vetted, as it were, to the spot on which he stood, with his eyes fixed on the lad; and, when the door had closed upon him, he pat on his hat, uncon- scious where he was; and, crushing it down over his brows, he begua wandering round the room in a state of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him that he should nqt wear his hat in the presence of the ma- gistrate, and he instantly removed it: but he still seemed lost to every thing around. him; and, though one or two gentlemen present put money into his hands, he heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office, apparently reckless of every thing. Mornings at Bow-street, On Shakspeare. The four greatest names in English poetry are almost the four first we come to — Chaucer, Spenser, Shak- speare, and Milton. There are no others that can really be put in competition with these. The two last have had justice done them by the voice of common fame. Their names are blazoned in the very firma- ment of reputation; while the two first (though "the fault has been more in their stars than in themselves that they are underlings "j either never emerged far above the horizon, or were too soon involved in the obscurity of time. The three first of these are exclu- ded from Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, (Shak- speave, indeed, is so from the dramatic form of his compositions); and the fourth, Milton, is admitted with a reluctant and churlish welcome. In comparing these four writers together, it might IN PItOSE. 58 be said, that Chaucer excels as the poet of manners, or of real life; Spenser, as the poet of romance,- Shak- speare, as the poet of nature (in the largest use of the term); and Milton, as the poet of morality, Chaucer most frequently describes things as they are; Spenser, as we wish them to be; Shakspeare, as they would be; and Milton, as they ought to be. As poets, and as great poets, imagination — that is, the power of feigning things according to nature, — was common to them all: but the principle, or moving power, to which this faculty was most subservient in Chaucer, was habit, or inveterate prejudice; in Spenser, novelty, and the love of the marvellous; in Shakspeare, it was the force of passion, combined with every variety of possible cir- cumstances; and in Milton, only with the highest. The characteristic of Chaucex' is intensity; of Spenser, remoteness; of Milton, elevation; of Shakspeare, every thing. It has been said by some critic, that Shakspeavc was distinguished from the other drr uatic writers of his day, only by his wit; that they lad all his otb^r qualities but that; that one writer had as much sense, another as much fancy, another as much knowledge of character, another tfcj same depth of passion, and another as great a power of language. This statement is not true; nor is the inference from it well founded, even if it were. This person does not seem to have been aware, that, upon his own showing, the great dis- tinction of Shakspears's genius was its virtually inclu- ding the genius of all the great men of his age, and not its differing from them in one accidental particular. — ^ut to have done with such minute and literal trifling. ^ The striking peculiarity of Shakspeare's mind, was Its genenc quality, its power of communication with all other minds-~so that it contained a universe of thought and feeling within itself, and had no one pecu- liar bif,5, or exclusive excellence more than another. He was just like any other man, but that he was like all other men. He was the least of an egotist that it was DOSSiblft to Vm. TJa \xraa nr,tUir,r, i^ Ut li?. L.^ ne was all that others were, or that they could become. He not only hid in himself the germs of evtry faculty if 'i f ■; 54 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS and feeling, but he could follow thera by anticipation, intuitively, into all their conceivable ramifications, through every change of fortune, or conflict of passion, or turn of thought. He had ' a mind reflecting ages past," and present:— all the people that ever lived, are there. There was no respect of persons with him. His genius shone equally on the evil and on the good, on the wise and the foolish, the monarch and the beg- gar: "All corners of the earth, kings, queens, and states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the gra\ e," are hardly hid from his searching glance. He was like the genius of humanity, changing places with all of us at pleasur", and playing with our purposes as with his own. He turned the globe round for his amusement; and surveyed the generations of men, and the individuals as- they passed, with their difteren concerns, passions, follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives— a^ well those that they knew, as those which they did not know, or acknowledge to themselves. The dreams of childhood, the ravings of despair, were the toys of his fancy. Airy beings waited at his call, and came at his bidding. Harmless fairies " nodded to him, and did him curtesies;" and the night-hag bestrode the blast, at the command of "his so potent art." The world of spirits lay open to him, like the worl(^ of real men and women: and there is the sar^e truth in his delineations of the one as of the other; for, if the preternatural characters he describes could be supposed to exist, they would speak, and feel, and act, as he makes them. Ho had only to think of any thing, in order to become vhut thing, with all the cir- cumstances b(^longing to it. When he conceived of a character, whether real or imaginary, he not only entered into all its thoughts and feelings, but seemed instantly, and as if by tout!hiiig a secret spring, to bo surrounded with ail the same objects, " subject to the same skyey influences,"— the same local, outward, and unforeseen accidents, which would occur in reality. Thus the character of Caliban not only stands before us with a luniruaorQ and mnnn^^r,'* of his own * t the scenery and situation of the enchanted island lie inha- bits, the traditions of the place, its strange noises, ita IN PROSE. 55 3 noiseM, its hidden recesses, "his frequent haunts and ancient neigh- bourhood," are given with a miraculous truth of nature, a.id with all the familiarity of an old recollec- tion. The whole "coheres semblably together" in time, place, and circumstance. In reading this author, you do not merely learn what his characters say,— you see their persons. By something expressed or under- stood, you are at no loss to decipher their peculiar physiognomy, the meaning of a look, the grouping, the bye-play, as we might see it on the stage. A word, an epithet, paints a whole scene, or throws us back whole years in the history of the person represented. So (as it has been ingeniously remarked) when Pros- pero describes himself as left alone in the boat wiH. his daughter, the epithet which he applies to her, " Me and thy cnjing self," flings the imagination instantly back from the grown woman to the helpless condition of infancy, and places the first and most trying scene of his misfortunes before us, with all that he must have suffered in the interval. How well the silent anguish of Macduff is conveyed to the reader, by the friendly expostulation of Malcolm — « What! man, ne'er pull your hat upon your brows!" Again, Hamlet, in the scene with Rosencraus and Guildenstern, some- what abruptly concludes his fine soliloquy on life, by saying, " Men delights not me, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so." Which is explained by their arswer—" My lord, we had no such stuff in our thoughts. But we smiled to thiitk, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you, whom we met on the way:" — as if, while Hamlet was making this speech, his two old schoolfellows from Wittenberg had been really standing by, and he had seen them smiling by stealth, at the idea of the players crossing their minds. It is not "a combination and a fonn" of words, a get speech or two, a preconcerted theory of a character, that will do this: but all the persons con- cerned must have been present in the poet's imagina- tion, as at a Kina of rehearsal; and whatever would have passed through their minds on the occasion, ana have been observed by others, passed through his, and is made known to the reader. Hazlitt I m 11 i^ :n;i^ ■ 66 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Character of Napoleon Bonaparte. To bring together in a narrower compass what seem to us the great leading features of the intellectual and moral character of Napoleon Bonaparte, we may re- mark, that his intellect was distinguished by rapidity of thought. He understood by a glance what most men, and superior men, could learn only by study. ile darted to a conclusion rather by intuition than reasoning. In war, which was the only subject of which he was master, he seized in an instant on the great points of his own, and his enemy's positions; and combined at once the movements by which an overpowering force might be thrown with unexpected iury on a vulnerable part of the hostile line, and the fate of an army be decided in a day. He understood war as a science; but his mind was too bold, rapid, and irrepressible to be enslaved by the technics of his profession. ' He found the old armies fighting by rule; and he discovered the true characteristic of genius,' which, without despising rules, knows when and how to break them. He understood thoroughly the im- mense moral power which is gained by originality and rapidity of operation. He astoi.Mhed and paralyzed his enemies by his unforeseen and impetuous assaults, by the suddenness with which the storm of battle burst upon them; and, whilst giving to his sol liers the advantages of modern discipline, breathed into them, by his quick and decisive movements, the enthusiasm of ruder ages. This power of disheartening the foe, and of spreading through his own ranks a ooi^-lence,' and exhilarating courage, which made war a ly.iMme,* and seemed to make victory sure, distinguished Napo- leon in an age of uncommon military talent, and was one main instrument of his future power. The wonderful effects of thatTnpidity of thought by which Bonaparte was marked, tile signal success of his new mode of warfare, and the almost incredible speed with which his fame was spread through nations, had no small agency in fixing his character, and determine ing, for a period, the fate of empireg. These- ^tirrin- influences infused a new consciousness of his own IN PROSE. 57 might. They gave intensity and audacity to his ambition; gave form and substance to his indefinite visions of glory, and raised his fiery hopes to empire . The burst of admiration, which his early career called forth, must, in particular, have had an influence in imparting to his ambition that modification by which it was characterized, and which contributed alike to its success and to its fall. He began with astonishing the world, with producing a sudden and universal sensation, such as njodern times had not witnessed. To astonish, as well as to sway, by his energies, be- came the great aim of his life. Henceforth to rule was not enough for Bonaparte. He wanted to amaze, to dazzle, to overpower men's souls, by striking, bold, magnificent, and unanticipated results. To govern ever so absolutely would not have satisfied him, if he must have governed siJently. He wanted to reign through wonder and awe. by the grandeur and terror of his name, by displays of power which would rivet on lum every eye, and make hira thfi theme of every tongue. Power was his supreme object ; but a power which should be gazed at as well as felt, which should strike men as a prodigy, which should ^ake old thrones as an earthquake, and, by the suddenness of Its new creations, should awaken something of the submissive wonder which miraculous agency inspires. Such seems to us to have been the distinction or characteristic modification of his love of fame. It was a diseased passion for a kind of admiration, which from the principles of our nature, cannot be enduring, and which demands for its support perpetual and moi-e stimulating novelty. Mere esteem he would have scorned. Calm admiration, though universal and en- during would have been insipid. He wanted to electrify and overwhelm. He lived for effect. The world was his theatre; and he cared little wh.it part he played, it he might walk he sole hero on the ntiwa, and call forth bursts of applause which woiud silence all other fame. In war, the triumphs which he covrM were Uiosa in which he seemed to sweep away his foes like a whirlwind ; and the immf^nse and unparalleled sacrifice of his own soldiers, in the rapid marches a id c2 p |!'^f '■ r ':<;( 1 : f .:i! 'I -' 1 ''1 ] 'r ■■1 i ill ] i '^ \ •i a 1 If 58 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS daring assaults to which he owed his victories, in no degree diminished their worth to the victor. In peace, he delighted to hurry through his dominions ; to mul- tiply himself by his rapid movements ; to gather at a glance the capacities of improvement which every important place possessed j to suggest plans which would startle by their originality and vastness; to pro- ject, in an instant, works which a life could not ac- complish, and to leave behind the impression of a superhuman energy. Our sketch of Bonaparte would be imperfect indeed, if we did not add, that he was characterized by no- thing more strongly than by the spirit oi seJf-exaggera- tion. The singular energy of his intellect and will, through which he had m,astered so many rivals and foes, and overcome what seemed insuperable obstacles, inspired a consciousness of being something more than man. His strong original tendencies to pride and self-exaltation, fed and pampered by strange success aud unbounded applause, swelled into an almost insane conviction of superhuman greatness. In his own view, he stood apart from other men. He was not to be measured by the standard of humanity. He was not to be retarded by difficulties, to which all others yielded. He was not to be subjected to laws and obli- gations which all others were expected to obey. Nature and the human will were to bend to his power. He was the child and fiivourite of fortune; and, if not the lord, the chief object of destiny. His history shows a spirit of self-exaggeration, unrivalled in enlightened ages, and which reminds us of an Oriental king to whom incenso had been burnt from his birth as "to a deity. This was the chief source of his crimes. He wanted the sentiment of a common nature with his fellow-beings. He had no sympathies with his race. That feeling of brotherhood, which iiT developed in truly great souls with peculiar energy, and through which they give up themselves willing victims, joyful sacrifices, to the interests of mankind, was wholly unknown *o him. His heart, amidst all its wild beat- ings, never had one throb of disinterested love. The ties which bind man to man he broke asunder. The IN PROSE. proper happiness of a man, which consists in the victory of morui energy and social aflfection over the selfish passions, he cast away for the lonely joy of a despot. With powers which might have made him a glorious represeatative and minister of the beneficent Divinity, and with natural sensibilities which might have been exalted into sublime virtues, he chose to separate himself from bis kind, — to forego their love, esteem, and gratitude, — that h« might become their gaze, their fear, their wonder; and for this selfish, solitary good, parted with peace and imperishable renown. Channing. On Milton. FaoM this very imperfect view of the qualities of Milton's poetry, we hasten to his great work, Paradise Lost, perhaps the noblest monument of human genius. The two first books, by univer:;al consent, stand pre- eminent in sublimity. Hell and Hell's King have a terrible harmony; and dilate into new grandeur and awfulness, the longer we contemplate them. From one element—" solid and liquid fire"— the poet has framed a world of horror and suffering, such as imagination had never traversed. But fiercer flames, than those which encompass Satan, burn in his own soul. Re- venge, exasperated pride, consuming wrath, ambition though fallen, yet unconquered by the thunders of the Omnipotent, and grasping still at the empire of the universe>, — these form a picture more sublime and terrible than Hell. Hell yields to the spirit which it imprisons. The intensity of its fires reveals the intense! passions and more vehement will of Satan ; and the ruined Archangel gathers into himself the sublimity of the scene which surrounds him. This forms the trelfeendous interest ofHhese wonderful books. We see mind triumphant over the most terrible powers of nature. We see unutterable agony subdued by energy oj soul. We have not indeed in Satan those oursts of passion, wlileu rive the soul, as well as shatter the outward frame of Lear. But wo have a depth of passion which only an Arcliangelcould manifest. 60 fh PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The all-enduring, all-defying pride of Satan, assuming so majestically Hell's burning throne, and coveting the diadem, which scoi ches his thunder-blasted brow, is a creation requiring in its author almost the spiritual energy with which he invests the fallen seraph. Some have doubted whether the moral effect of such delinea- tions of the storms and terrible workings of the soul, is good ; whether the interest felt in a spirit so tran- scendently evil as Satan, favours our sympathies with virtue. But our interest fastens in this and like cases, on what is not evil. We gaze on Satan with an awe not unmixed with mysterious pleasure, a^ on a mira- culous manifestation of the power of mind. What chains us, as with a resistless spell, in such a character, is spiritual might made visible by the racking pains which it overpowers. There is .something kindling and ennobling in th« consciousness, however n wakened, of the energy which resides in mind; and many a virtuous man has borrowed new strength from the force, constancy, and dauntless courage of evil agents. Milton's description of Satan attests, in various ways, the power of his genius. Critic , have often observed, that the great difficulty of his work was to reconcile the spiritual properties of his supernatural beings with the human modes of existence, which he was obliged to ascribe to them; and the difficulty is too great for any genius wholly to overcome; and we must acknowledge, that our enthusiasm is, in some partb of the poem, checked by a feeling of incongruity between the spiritual agent, and his sphere and mode of agency. But we are visited with no such chilling doubts and misgivings in the description of Satan in Hell. Ima- gination has here achieved its highest triumph, in imparting a character of reality and truth to its most daring creations. That world of horrors, though material, is yet so remote from our ordinary nature, that a spiritual being, exiled from heaven, finds there an appropriate home. There is, too, an indefiniteness in the description of Satan's person, which incites 'iioctiing the iiiKiginatiort, and aids us to eoui- bitie in our conception of him the mnssiness of a real form, with the vagueness of spiritual existence. To IN PROSE. 61 the production of this effect, much depends on the first impression given by the poet ; for this is apt to follow UP through the whole work; and here we think Milton eminently successful. The fir t glimpse of Satan is given us in the following lines, which, whilst too indefinite to provoke the scrutiny of the reason, fill the imagination of the reader with a form which can hardly be effaced : Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, With head up-lift above the wave, and eyes That sparkling blazed, his other parts besides Prone on the flood, extended long and large, Lay floating many a rood, * * * Par. Lost, b. i. lines 192 — 196. Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames. Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and roU'd In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale. Ibid. 221—224. We have more which we should gladly say of the delineation of Satan; especially of the glimpses which are now and then given of his deep anguish and des- pair, and of the touches of better feelings which are skilfully thrown into the dark picture; both suited and designed to blend with our admiration, dread, and abhorrence, a measure of that sympathy and interest with which every living, thinking being, ought to be regarded, and without which all feelings tend to sin and pain. But there is another topic which we cannot leave untouched. From Hell we flee to Paradise, a region as lovely as Hell is terrible ; and which, to those who do not know the universality of true genius, will appear doubly wonderful, when considered as the creation of the same mind which had painted the infernal world. Paradise and its inhabitants are in sweet accordance, and together form a scene of tranquil bliss, which calms and soothes, whilst it delights the imagination. Adam and Eve, just moulded by the hand, and quick- ened by the breath of God, reflect in their counte- nances, and foiius, tts well as minU8, the intelligence, benignity, and happiness of their Author. Their new existence has the freshness and peacefulness of the 62 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS dewy morning. Their souls, r-.^ated and untainted, find an innocent joy in the youthful creation, which spreads and smiles around them. Their mutual love is deep — for it is the love of young, unworn, unex- hausted hearts, which meet in each other the only human objects on whom to pour forth their fulness of affection : and still it is serene— for it is the love of happy beings, who know not suffering even by name j whose innocence excludes not only the tumults, but the thought of jealousy and shame j who "imparadised in one another's arms," scarce dream of futurity— so blessed is fueir present being. We will not say, that we envy our first parents; for we feel that there may be higher happiness than theirs,— a happiness won through struggle with inward and outward foes, the happiness of pc./er and moral victory, the happiness of disinterested sacrifices and wide-spread love, the happiness of boundless hope, and of "thoughts which wander through eternity." Still there are times, when the spirit, oppressed with pain, worn with toil, tired of tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, wounded in its love, baffled in its hope, and trembling in its faith, almost longs for the "wings of a dove, that it might fly away." and take refuge amidst the "shady bowers," the "vernal airs," the "roses without thoras," the quiet, the beauty, the loveliness of FAen. It is the contrast of this deep peace of Paradise with the storms of life, which gives to the fourth and fifth books of this poem a charm so irresistible, that not a few would sooner relinquish the two first books, with all their sublimity, than part with these. It has sometimes been said, that the English language has no good pastoral poetry. We woull ask, In what age or country has the pastoral reed breathed such sweet strains, as are borne to us on "the odoriferous wings of gentle gales," from Milton's Paradise? We should not fulfil our duty, were we not to say one word on what has been justly celebrated,— the harmony of Milton's versification. His numbers have the prime charm of expressiveness^ Thev vary with and answer to the depth, or tenderness, or sublimity of his conceptions; and hold intimate alliance with the IN PROSE. 63 soul. Like Michael Angelo, in whose hands the marble was said to be flexible, he bends our language, which foreigners reJproach with hardness, into whatever forms the subjects demands. All the treasures of sweet and solemn sound are at his command. Words, harsh and discordant in the writings of less gifted men, flow through his poetry in a full stream of harmony. This power over language is not to be ascribed to Milton's musical ear. It belongs to the soul. It is a gift or exercise of genius, which ha.s power to impress itself on whatever it touches; and finds or frames in sounds, motions, and material forms, correspondences and harmonies with its own fervid thoughts and feelings. Channing. Wit injures Eloquence, To all those rules which art furnishes for conducting the plan of a discourse, we proceed to subjoin a gene- ral rule, from which orators, and especially Christian orators, ought never to swerve. When such begin their career, the zeal for the sal- vation of souls which animates them, doth not render them always unmindful of the glory which follows great success. A blind desire to shine and to please, is often at the expense of that substantial honour which might be obtained, were they to give themselves up to the pure emotions of piety, which so well agree with the sensibility necessary to eloquence. It is, unquestionably, to be wished, that he who de- votes himself to the arduous labour which preaching requires, should be wholly ambitious to render him- self useful to the cause of religion. To such, reputa- tion can never be a sufficient recompense. But if mo- tives so pure have not sufficient sway in your breast, calculate, at least, the advantages of self-love ; and you may perceive how inseparably connected these are with the success of your ministry. Is it on your own account that you preach ? Is it for V' thof roll l«tilinrir\n r\aar\rv\. IJ. Z7^ III *X \,X^\1X~ I pie ? You ought never to indulge so presumptuous a thought. However, I only consider you as an orator. 64 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Tell me, then, what is this you call Eloquence ? Is it the wretched trade of imitating that criminal, men- tioned by a p^et in his satires, who "balanced his crimes before his judges with antithesis?" Is it the puerile secret of forming jejune quibbles ?— of round- ing periods ?— of tormenting one's self by tedious stu- j>chi .vements in science and art, and still more for :, , -amples of heroic and saintly virtue. There ax > irks of a divine origin, and the pledges of a ceiestia. inheritance; and I thank God that my own loi; fi bfnind up with that of the human race. Channing. The Hill of Science. In that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured foliage of the trees, and all the sweet, but fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence,' and dispose it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat me down on the fragment of a rock, overgrown with moss, where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity, and sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries which the objects around me natu- rally inspired. I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of whom pressed forwards with the liveliest expressions of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in many places steep and difficult. I observed, that those who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought themselves not far from the top; but, as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view, and the summit of the highest they could before discern seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to lose itself in the clouds. As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, my good genius suddenly appeared :— " The mountain be- IN PROSE. 67 fore thee," said he, " is the Hill of Science. On the top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure lijgjht covers her face. Ob- serve the progress of her votaries; be silent and atten- 5> tive. I saw that the only regular approach to the moun- tain was by a gate, Ci.iled the Gate of Languages. It was kept bj a woman of a pensive and thoughtful ap- pearance, whose lips were continually moving, as though she repeated something to herself. Her name was Memory. On entering this first enclosure, T was stunned with a confused murmur of jarring voices and dissonant sounds ; which increased upon me to such a degree, that I was utterly confounded, and could com- pare the noise to nothing but the confusion of tongues at Babel. After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with laurels and other evergreens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of the goddess seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. " Happy," said I, " are they who are permitted to ascend the mountain !" — but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with un- common ardour, I saw standing beside me a form of 'iviner features and a more benign radiance. " Hap- pier," said she, "are those whom Virtue conducts to the mansions of Content !"—" What," said I, « does Virtue then reside in the vale ?" — " I am found," said she, " in the vale, and I illuminate the mountain : I cheer the cottager at his toil, and mspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowds of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence ; and to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science may raise you to eminence ; but I alone can guide to felicity I" — While the goddess was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her with a vehemence which broke my slumbers. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shales of evening stretched over the land- scape. I hastened homeward, and resigned the night to silence and meditation. Aikin's Miscellanies, I < s Ir I ■ ^ (I 68 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The Planetary and Terrestrial Worlds. To us, who dw^ell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes can any where behokl : it is also clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a vauety of beautiful deco- rations; whereas, to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect, looks all luminous, and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at Siill greater distances, it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star — as in one part of the orbit she rides foremest in the procession of night ; in the other, ushers in and anticipates the cawn — is a planetary world. This planet, and the nine others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and skies of their own; are furnished with all aecoramoda- tions for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life: all which, together with jur earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of divine munificence, the sun ; receive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is, in this respect, fixed and immove- able; it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated ciurses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial i. illuminates, i<* abundantly larger than this whole earth, on wJiich so many lofty moiintain? rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side, 'hrough the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred thousand miles: a girdle formed to go ronnd its circumference, would require a length of millions. Were its solid contents to bo estimated, the aceount would overwhehn our understanding, and be almost beyond the power of language to expr(«ss. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy? Aro we read> to cry out, in a transport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire; and ke«'ps alive, from age to oge, so enopiiiOijej u tniisa of flameT' IN PROSE. 69 let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with ppeculotions more enlarged and more inflaming. This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe : every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, is really a vast glo )e, like the sun in size and in glory; no less spacions. no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star is not barely a world, but the centre of a magniiicent system; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence; all which are lost to our sight, in unmeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars appear like so many diminuiive, and scarcely distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is; since a ball, shot from a loaded oannon, and flying with unabated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries. While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all terrestrial things, What is the earth, with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the skies? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe? It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were anni- liilated, they would not bo missed by nn eye that can tnko in thn whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which they consist, and th(^ space which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the wliole, that their loss would scarcely Isa^e u blank in the immen- sity < f God's works. If, then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a kingdom or a country? What are a few lordships, or the so-much-ndmired patrimonies of those who are styled weuhhy? Vvlien 1 measure them with my own \ii\W I 70 ritOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS little pittance, thoy swell into |)roud and bloated dimensions : but, when I take the universe for my Ptnndard, how sennty is their size I how contemptible their figure! They shrink into pompous nothings. Addison. Effects of Stfmpatliy in the Distresses of Others. To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a j)r<)ner manner, wc must previously consider, how we are alFected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures in circumsfanct'S of r'- ,1 distress. I am convinced wo liave a degree of delight, and that no small one, in tho real misfortunes and pains of others ; for, let the alfec- tion be what it will in appearance, if it do 'S not make us shun such objects. — if, on the contrary, it induces us to ttpproaeii them — if it makes U9 dwell upon them; in this case, I suppose, we must have a delight or pleasure, of some species or other, in contemplating objects of this kind. Do we not read the authentic histories of scenes of this nature, with as much plea- sure as romances or poems, where the incidents are fictitious? The prosperity of no empire, and th(3 grandeur of no king, can so agreeably alFect in the reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon, and tho distresses of its unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in history, as much as the destruction of Troy does in fable. Our delight, in cases of this kind, is very greatly lunghtened, if the sufferer be some excellent person, who sinks under an unworth.y for- tune. Scipio and Cato are both virtuous cliar*(Cters ; but we ore more «leeply afi'ected by t" e violent death ot ihe one, and the ruin of the great cau^e he adhered to, than with tho deserved iriun jhs and uninterrupted prosperity of the other; i'or terr-w m a passion which always produces delii';! t when ii floe* not press too close, and pity is a f)as8io!t ;iCCompanied with pleasure, because ij, arises from lov»' , '' soci. I affection. When- ever we are formed by D i.uio U liny active purpose, the passion which aninuva-s us to it *a attended with delight, or a }nteniplating le authentic much pleii- ncidents are re, and th(3 ill'ect in the on, and tho catastrophe istruction of of tluH kind, er be Home worthy for- charaeters ; iolent death ! he adhered nint(!rrupted ission which ot press too ith pliMi8ure, tioii. When- ive purpose, [tended with the isubject- :ator lifiD ui-- signed wo should be united together by so strong a bond as that of sympathy, ho has therefore twisted along with it a proportionable quantity of this ingre- dient; and always in the greatest proportion where our sympathy is most wanted, in the distresses of others. If this passion was simply painful, we should shun, with the gr«uitest rare, all persons and places that could excite such a passion; as some, who are so far gone in indolence as not to endure any strong impressions, actually do. But the case is widely different with the greater part of mankind: there is no spectacle we so eagerly pun je, as that of some uu- common and grievous calamity; sc that, whether the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they are turned back to it in history, it til ways touches with delight; but it is not an unmixed d(jiight, b t blended with no small uneasinep . The delight we havo in such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of misery; and the pain we feel, prompts us to relieve ourselves in relieving those who sutler : and all this, antecedent to any reasoning, by an instinct that works us to its own purposes, witliout our concurrence, Burke, \ > .flu Exhortation tv the Study of Eloquence. I CANNOT conceive any thing more excellent, than to be able, by languag.', to captivate the affections, to charm tho understanding, and to impel or restrain tho will cf whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free peop!-, especially in peaceful, settled governments this single art Jus nl vaya eminently flourished, anc' alwa>s cxerci.ed the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising, th- that, amidst an nfinite multi- tude, e man i ul appear, who shr.il be the only, or almost tnc on.; ir,an capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can any thing impart such exquisite -!»;;, ure to the rar, and to the intellect, r- ^speech iu which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments, are heightened by the utmost Ijrco and bciuity of expression? Is there any thing so com- niu!i«,!?«g, «,- ^rand, as that the eloquence of one muu #^ Jl :•■ 72 rUOMlSCUOUS SELBCTIONS I should direct the inclinations of the people, the con- sciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can any thing be so necessary, as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend your- self, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs? But, let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, as the bar, and in the senate ; can any thing ])e more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently dis- tinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, there- fore, in the exercise of that very talent, which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what every body must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefiitigable pursuit. And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of the human race; to tame their savage manners; to reconcile them to social life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions, for their government? — Let me, in a few words, sum up this almost boundless subject. 1 lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must greatly depend. Tlierefore, young gentlemen, go on : ply the .study in which you are engaged, for your own honour, the advantage of your licuds, and the service of your country. Cicero. IN PROSE u On the Cultivation of the Intellectual Powers. A DUTY peculiarly applicable to the season of youth 18 the diligent cultivation of the intellectual powers' Yours IS the time, my young friends, for forming good mental habits, and acquiring those liberal and rational tastes, which will prove a source of the purest happi- ness to the very close of existence. Now or never is the time for giving a bent to the character. As yet you are not deeply involved in the perplexing cares of lite; as yet, you are not the slaves of any low and debasing haoits : your minds and all their best powers are your own; your curiosity is awake ; and your at- tention capable of being easily directed and fixed to any object-to any pursuit. Yours are the light and cheerful spirits-the ever-active interest-the dear and unembarrassed memory ; yours, the joyous hope and eager expectation, which at once dispose your mmds to seek for knowledge, rnd qualify them for gaining It. For you, nature unlocks her stores, and thi wfde^fil': *^'"'^°^ "^""^^'*^' *« y«"' «^^« opened the wide fields of science; to you, is unrolled the ample page of history; and for your instruction and delight, IS recorded all that the sage has thought, and yLTn Tl' ^" ''^ ^"""^ P^«^^«««' and Increase youi knowledge, innumerable schemes are devised n«l"!!f "•*^"' '"'"f^/ ^^^'^ ^"^'te you into the paths of wisdom, and lavish on you the opportunities happy period. Let them not be ofi-gred you in vain Let not "wisdom cry. and understanding put forth her voice, in the top of high places, by the way in the places of the paths;" while you turi a deaf eaTto her counsels, and go aside into the ways of folly but rather, ,n every thing good and liberal-lTn ^verv led"? rrf-1 "^*' *''^ I'^Sress of truth and k.'o^ ledge and virtue and vital religion-endeavour to prove yourselves worthy of the age in wh c you ivo and of the country to which you £.Jon- ^ * Learn, also, to be modest in your demeanour, lowly in heait, and humble in your opinion of yourselves Ihere is no nijnllfT. ,«..„/ t. ^ , j'"«»«»eive8. vnnth th»^ \. J '1'"' "«r.' ''''o*'S"'g ana aitiuctive in >outh than modesty. What says the widest of men ? D 'i* 4lllll!!'| m " m i I PROMISCUOCS SELECTIONS Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him." An individuals modest opinion of himself, is a tolerably accurate test ot his real merit; and if this be true of men m general, it is still more bo of ycung people, who can have but little knowledge, and still less experience. Rashness, petulance, and self-conceit, will sometimes hurry even well-meaning young persons into mistakes, which they could not foresee— perhaps into crimes, which they would have blushed and trembled to think of before- hand. Enter, then, the paths of life, cautiously and circumspectly, distrustful of yourselves, and willing to be advised and directed by those who are wiser and more experienced. Feel your own weakness and liability to err, and it will lead you to cultivate a devotional spirit; acknowledge your own ignorance and want of experience, and it will dispose you to lean upon your parents; confess the feebleness of your abilities, and the small extent of your knowledge, and it will stimulate you to improve your minds diligently, and may be a means of ultimately leading you to the highest attainments in knowledge and wisdom. ® Taylor, The Fallen Leaf. '• Thk fallen leaf !" Again and again I repeated this sentence to myself, when, after traversing the avenue for some time, I had inadvertently stepped into a heap of these mementoes of the departing year. This trivial incidfjnt broke in upon a gay and buoyant tram ot thought ; and, as for a single moment I stood hxed to the spot, the words of the prophet fell with a deep and painful meaning upon my heart. I resumed my walk and would have resumed with pleasure the train of thought that had been broken, but in vam; and when 1 again reachi^d the place where the fallen leaves were collected, I made a longer pause W.th how loud a voice did they apeak of the end ot ail things ! how forcibly remind me, tiiat those busy projects 1 • 1. _. iV-* ^«.v^.».i* act'itatfA mv heart, would, like them, fade, and be carried away in the tide ot iite There is ividual's te test of jneral, it lave but Lashness, rry even lich they ich they f before- usly and rilling to viser and less and Itivate a gnorance u to lean of your tdge, and iiligently, ; you to idora. Taylor, sated this le avenue jto a heap his trivial t train of d fixed to th tt deep mmed my J the train vain ; and lien leaves With how H things ! y projects irould. like lo of life ! IN PROSE. 75 The leaves fade away, and leave the parent stem desolate : but, in a few short months, they will bud and bloom again ; other leaves, as gay as those were, will supply their place, and clothe the forest with as bright a green. And is it not so with the heart? We are separated from those who are now most dear to us, or they fade away into the tomb ; new interests are excited, new friendships contracted, and every former image is effaced and forgotten. My eye now rested on the venerable pile of building before me: it seemed but as yesterday, since the master of that stately mansion stood at the gate to welcome my arrival; and now, where was heP—Gone—and for ever ! The accents of his voice were never again to be heard j my eye was to behold him no more.— As these thoughts passed through my mind, a slight breeze for a moment agitated the naked branches ; it helped to complete the work of desolatfon; and several of the still remaining leaves were wafted to my feet. How indiscriminately were here mingled— the pride of the forest, the m^estic oak, the trembling aspen, the graceful poplar, with all the tribe of inferior shrubs ! Here lay all that remained of their once-gay foliage- one undistinguishable mass of decay; with no mark to point out to which they had originally belonged. And shall not Death, the great leveller, reduce us to the same state of equality? The great, the noble, the learned, the beautiful— when they lay down their heads in the grave— what are they more than the mean, the lowly, and the worthless? They leave a name behind them for a short time, and then— how soon are the best beloved forgotten ! Feelings such as these must have been felt by thousands ; and, whilst they serve to temper the enjoyment of prosperity, they contribute also to smooth the rugged path of life, and cahn the sufferings of the wounded spirit. Since whether one day has been bright or cloudy, spring and summer must, ere long, give place to autumn; and then comes the winter, when we, too, must fade as the leaf. y^nonymous. 76 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Happiness. What is earthly happiness ?— that phantom, of which we hear so much and see so little ; whose promises are constantly g.ven, and constantly broken, but as con- stantly believed; that cheats us with the sound instead of the substance, and with the blossom intead of the fruit. Anticipation is her herald, but disappointment is her companion; the first addresses itself to our ima- gination, that would believe ; but the latter to our experience, that must. Happiness, that grand mistress of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us through all its mazes and meanderings, but leads none of us by the same route. Aristippus pursued her in pleasure, Socrates in wisdom, and Epicurus in both; she received the attentions of each, but bestowed her endearments, on none of them. Warned by their failure, the stoic adopted another mode of preferring his suit : he thought, by slandering, to obtain her ; by shunning, to win her; and proudly presumed, that, by fleeing her, she would turn and follow him. She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane ; smooth as the water at the edge of the cataract ; and beautiful as the rainbow, that smiling daughter of the storm : but, like the image in the desert, she tantalizes us with a delusion, that distance creates, and that contiguity destroys ; yet, often, when unsought she is found, and when unexpected, often obtained : while those who search for her the most diligently, fail the most, because they seek her where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; Cffisar, in domi- nion. The first found disgrace ; the second disgust ; the last, ingratitude; and each, destruction. To some she is more kind, but not less cruel ; she hands them her cup, and they drink even to stupefac- tion, until they doubt whether they are men— with Philip, or dream that th-y are gods— with Alexander, On some she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than that of an Italian sun ; but it is only to make her Irown the more terrible, and, by one short caress, to embitter the pangs of separative. Ambition, avarice, love, revctigc, uu twese sefr-- -='-ij and her alone: alasl they are neither presented to her, uses are our ima- IN PROSE. 77 nor will sho come to them. She despatches, however, to them her envoys. To ambition, she sends power ; to avarice, wealth ; to love, jealousj ; to revenge, remorse :-— alas ! what are these, but so many other names for ve?cation or disappointment! Neither is she to be won by flatteries nor bribes : she is to be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by paying any particular court to herself. Those that conquer her adversaries, will find that they need not go to her; for she will come unto them. None bid so high for her as kings ; few are more willing, none more able, to purchase her alliance at the fullest price. But she has no more respect for kings, than for their subjects; she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by sending to their palaces all her equipage, her pomp, and her train; but she comes not herself. What, then, detains her? She is travelling incognito, to keep a private assignation with contentment, and to partake of a conversation and a dinner of herbs, with some humble, but virtuous pea- sant, in a cottage. Anonymous. The Idiot. A POOR widow, in a small town in the north of Eng- land, kept a booth or stall of apples and sweetmeats. She had an idiot child, so utterly helpless and depen- dent, that he did not appear to be ever alive to ano-er or self-defence. He sat all day at her feet, and seemed to be possessed of no other sentiment of the human kind, than confidence in his mother's love, and a dread of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed. His whole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, singing •* pal-lal" in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to even- ing hfi sung his plaintive and aimless ditty ; at night, when his poor mother gathered up her uttle wares to return home, so deplorabh lid his defects appear, that, while she carried hnv ♦nhio nn lioi. U,^r.A i i_-u -^ little merchandise in her lap, and her stool in one 78 PROMISCDOUa SELECTIONS ! ■ hand, »\\e was obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon, as any of the schoolboys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. A human creature so far below the standard of humanity, was nowhere ever seen : he had not even the shallow cunning which is often found among these unfinished beings ; and his simplicity could not even be measured by the standard we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet it bad a feeling rarely manifested even in the affectionate dog, and a knowledge never shown by any mere ani- mal. He was sensible of his mother's kindness, and how much he owed to her care. At night, when she spread his humble pallet, though he knew not prayer, nor could comprehend the solemnities of worship, he prostrated himself at her feet ; and, as he i ised them, mumbled a kind of mental orison, as if i . fond and Loly devotion. In the morning, before she went abroad to resume her station in the market-pkce, he peeped anxiously out to reconnoitre the street ; and, as often as he saw any of the schoolboys in the way, be held her firmly back, and sung his sorrowful "pal-lal." One day the poor woman and her idiot boy were missed from the market-place; and the charity of some of the neighbours induced them to visit her hovel. They found her dead on her sorry couch, and the boy sitting beside her, holding her hand, swinging and singing his pitiful lay more sorrowfully than he had ever done before. He could not speak, but only utter a brutish gabble; sometimes, however, he looked as if he comprehended something of what was said. On tiiis occasion, when the neighbours spoke to him, he looked up with the tear in his eye; and clasping the cold hand more tenderly, sunk the strain of his mournful " pal-lal" into a softer and sadder key. The spectators, deeply affected, raised him from the body; and he surrendered his hold of the earthly hand with- out resistance, retiring in silence to an obscure corner of the room. One of them, looking towards the others, said to them, " Poor wretch ! what shall we do with him?" At that moment, he resumed his chant ; and, lifting two handfuis of dust from the fioor, sprinkled it IN PROSB. 7» on his head, and sung, with a wild and clear heart- piercing pathos, " pai-lal — pal-lal." Blackwood's Magazine. Emphasis^ Pauses, and Tones. By emphasis is meant a fuller and stronger sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of some word, on which we intend to lay particular stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the sen- t.nce. To acquire the proper management of em* phasis, the only rule is, study to acquire a just con- ception of the force and spirit of those sentiments which you are to deliver. In all prepared discourses, it would be extremely useful, if the/ were read over or rehearsed in private, with a view of ascertaining the proper emphasis, before they were pronounced in public ; marking, at the same time, the emphatical words in every sentence, or at least in the most im- portant parts of the discourse, and fixing them well in memory. A caution, however, must be given against multiplying emphatical words too m h. They become striking, only when used with prudent reserve. If they recur too frequently, if a speaker attempt to ren- der every thing he says of high importance, by a mul- titude of strong emphasis, they will soon fail to excite the attention of his hearers. Next to emphasis, pauses demand attention. They are of two kinds: first, emphatical pauses; and secondly, such as mark the distinction of sense. An emph{>.tical pause is made after something has been said of pecu- liar moment, on which we wish to fix the hearers' attention. Sometimes a matter r^ mportance is pre- ceded by a pause of this nature. .!Juch pauses have the same effect with strong emphasis, and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the caution just now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For, as they excite uncommon attention, and consequently raise expectation, if this be not fully answered, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principai use of pauses 13, to mark the diviaions of the oense, and at the a> .w2 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT.3) // {./ £ M/. «■ f^ I.O I.I 1.25 ^ m lit 25 2.2 2.0 U 11 1.6 I c^ ^^ c^ r Photograpliic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRUT WIBSTIR.NY. 14510 (71*) 173-4303 ^ aK ^V ;\ \ <^ ^,% k o^ ^ s* 80 PBOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS same time to permit the speaker to draw his breath ; and the proper manngement of such pauses is one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. A pro- per command of the breath is peculiarly requisite. To obtain this, every speaker should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to suppose that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of a period, when the voice suffers only a momentary t-uspension. By ♦his management, a suffi- cient supply may be obtained for carrying on the longest period, without improper interruptions. Pauses in public discourse must be formed upon the manner in which we express ourselves in sensible conversation, and not upon the stiff, artificial manner which we acquire from perusing books according to common puhctuation. Punctuation, in general, is very arbitrary; often capricious and false ; dictating a uni- formity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely un- pleasing. For it must be observed, that to render pauses graceful and expressive, they must not only be made in the right places, but also be accompanied by proper tones of voice ; by which the nature of these pauses is intimated much more than by their length, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes, only a slight and simple suspension of the voice is proper; sometimes a degree of cadence is requisite; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which mark the conclusion of a period. In these cases, a speaker is to regulate himself by the manner in which he speaks when engaged in earnest discourse with others. In reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar diffi- culty in making the pauses with propriety. There are two kinds of pauses, which belong to the music of verse ; one at the end of a line, and the other in the middle of it. Rhyme always renders the former sensible, and compels observance of it in pronuncin- tion. In blank verse, it is less perceivable; and when there is no suspension of th sense, it has been doubt- ed whether in reading such verse, any regard should I IN PJtOSE. 81 2quisite. To be paid to the close of a line. On the stage, indeed where the appearance of spewing in verse should be avoided, the close of such lines as make no pause in the sense should not be rendered perceptible to the ear. On other occasions, we ought, for the sake of melody, to read blank verse in such manner as to make each line sensible to the ear. In attempting this, how- ever, every appearance of singsong and tone must be cautiously avoided. The close of a line, where there IS no pause in the meaning, should be marked only by so slight a suspension of sound as may distinguish the passage from one line to another, without injuring the sense. The pause in the middle of the line falls after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllable, and no other. When this pause coincides with the slightest division in the sense, the line may be read with ease ; as in the first two lines of Pope's Messiah : Ye nymphs of Solyraa, begin the song, To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. But if words that have so intimate a connexion as not to admit even a momentary separatior be divided from each other by this cesural pause, we then per- ceive a conflict between the sense and sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines gracefully. In such cases, it is best to sacrifice sound to sensef For instance, in the following lines of Milton : What in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support. The sense clearly dictates the pause after "illumine " which ought to be obi We proceed to treat of tones in pronunciation, which are different both from emphasis and pauses; consisting in the modulation of the voice, the notes or variations of sound which are employed in public speaking. The most material instruction which can be given on this subject is, to form the tones of public speaking upon the tones of animated conversation. Every one who is engaged in speaking on a subject which interests him nearly, has an eloquent, persuasive tone and manner. But when a speaker departs from his natural tone of expression, he ^becomes frigid and unpersuasive. Nothing is more absurd than to sup- pose, that as soon as a speaker ascends a pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is i tantly to lay aside the voice with which he expresses himself in private, and to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence altogether sdifferent from his natural manner. This has vitiated all delivery, and has given rise to cant and tedious monotony. Let every public speaker guard against this error. Whether he speak in private or in a great assembly, let him remember that h ^ still speaks. Let him take nature for his guide, and she will teach him to express his sentiments and feelings in such manner, as to make the most forcible and pleasing impression upon the minds of his hearers. Blair. Gestures, It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in public discourse. The best rule is, attend to the looks and gesture in which earnestness, indig- nation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers itself to most advantage in the common intercourse of men; and let these be your model. A public speaker must, however, adopt that manner which is most natural to himself. His motions and gestures ought all to exhibit that kind of expression which nature his dictated to him; and unless this be the case, no study can prevent their appearing stiff and forced. But, though nature is the basis on which every grace of gesture must be founded, yet there is room for aome IN PROSE. 83 int is called le is, Httend improvements of art. The study of action consists chief./ in guarding against awkward and disagreeable motions, and in learning to perform such as are natural to the speaker in the most graceful manner. Nume- rous are the rules which writers have laid down for the attainment of proper gesticulation. But written instructions on this subject can be of little service. To become useful, they must be exemplified. A few of the simplest precepts, however, may be observed with advantage. Every speaker should study to preserve as much dignity as possible in the attitude of his body. He Fhould generally prefer an erect posture; his posi- tion should be firm, that he may have the fullest and freest command of all his motions. If any inclination be used, it should be toward the hearers, which is a natural expression of earnestness. The countenance should correspond with the nature of the discourse ; and, when no particular emotion is expressed, a serious and manly look is always to b*? preferred. The eyes should never be fixed entirely ( '. any one object, but move easily round the audience. In motion made with the hands consists the principal part of gesture m 8peak;ng. It is natural for the right hand to be employed more frequently than the left. Warm emo- tions require the exercise of them both together. But whether a speaker gesticulate with one or with both his hands, it is important that all his motions be easy and unrestrained. Narrow and confined movements are usually ungraceful : and, consequently, motions made with the hands should proceed from the shoul- der, rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular move- ments are to be avoided. Oblique motions are most pleasing and graceful. Sudden and rapid motions are seldom good. Earnestness can bo fully expressed without their assistance. We cannot conclude this subject, without earneatly admonishing every speaker to guard against affecta- tion, which IS the destruction of good delivery. Let his manner, whatever it be, be his own j neither imi- tated from another, nor taken from some imaginary model, which is unnatural to him. Whatever is native though attended hy several delects, is likely to please, 'B4I PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS because it shows us the man ; and because it has the appearance of proceeding from the heart. To attain a delivery extremely correct and graceful is what few can expect; -since &o many natural talents must concur in its ibrmation. But to acquire a forcible and persua- sive manner is within the power of most persons. They need only to dismiss bad habits, follow -nature, and speak in public as they do in private, when they epeak in earnest, and from the heart Blair, Death of Charles the Second, The death of King Charles the Second took th« nation by surprise. His frame was naturally strong, and did not appear to have* suffered from excess. He had always been mindful of his health even in his plea- sures; and his habits were such as promise a long life and a robust old age. Indolent as he was on all occa- sions which required tension of the mirni, he was active and persevering in bodily exercise. He had, when young, been renowned as n tennis player, and was, even in the decline of life, an indefatigable walker. His ordinary pace was such that those who were admitted to the honor of his society found it difficult to keep up with him. He rose early, and gen- erally passed three or four hours a day in the open air. He might be seen, before the dew was off the grass in St. James' Park, striding among the trees, playing with his spaniels, and flinging corn to his ducks ; and these exhibitions endeared him to the com^ a people, who always love to see the great unbend. At length, towards the close of the year 1684, he was prevented, by a slight attack of vv^hat was supposed to be gout, from rambling as usual. He now spent his mornings in his laboratory, where he amused himself with experiments on the properties of mercury. His temper seemed to have suffered from confinement. He had no apparent cause for disquiet. His kingdom 'vas tranquil: he was not in pressing want of money: his power was greater than it had ever been : the party which had long thwarted him had been beaten down : but the cheerfulness v/hich had supported him against I«f PROSE. 85 adverse fortune had vanished in thia season of prospe- rity. A trifle now sufficed to depress those elastic spirits which had borne up against defeat, exile, and penury. His irritation frequently showed itself by looks and words, such as could hardly have been ex- pected from a man so eminently distinguished by good humour and good breeding. It was not sup- posed, however, that his constitution was seriously impaired. ^ His palace had seldom presented a gayer or a nror© scandalous appearance than on the evening of Sunday the first of February, 1685. Some grave persons who had gone thither, after the fashion of that age, to pay their duty to their sovereign, and who had expected that, on such a day, his court would wear a decent aspect, were struck with astonishment and horror The great gallery of Whitehall, an admirable relic of the magnificence of the Tudors, was crowded with revellers and gamblers. A party of twenty courtiers was seated at cards, round a large table, on which gold was heaped in mountains. Even then the king had complained that he did not feel quite well. He had no appetite for his supper ; his rest that night was broken ; but on the tollowing morning he rose, as usual, early. To that morning the contending factions in his council had, during some days, looked forward with anxiety. The struggle between Halifax and Rochester seemed to be approaching a decisive crisis. Halifax, not content with having already driven his rival from the board of Treasury, had undertaken to prove him guilty of such dishonesty or neglect in the conduct of the finances as ought to be punished by dismission irom the public service. It was even whispered that tfie lord president would probably be sent to the lower before night. The king had promised to in* quire into the matter. The second of February had been fixed for the investigation: and several officers of the revenue had been ordered to attend with their hand '''' ^''^' "^"* * ^''®*' *"''" ""^ ^''''*""® *** ** Scarcely had Charles risen from his bed when his I lm% PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS attendants perceived that his utterance was indistinct, and that his thoughts seemed to be wandering. Several men of rank had, as usual, assembled to see their sove- reign shaved and dressed. He made an effort to converse with them in his usual gay style; but his ghastly look surprised and alarmed them. Soon his face grew black ; his eyes turned in his head ; he ut- tered a cry, staggered, and fell into the arms of Tho- mas Lord Bruce, eldest son of the Earl of Ailesbury. A physician, who had charge of the royal retorts and crucibles, happened to be present. He had no lancet ; but he opened a vein with a penknife. The blood flowed freely; but the king was still insensible. And now the gates of Whitehall, which ordinarily stood open to all comers, were closed. But persons whose faces were known were still permitted to^ enter. The antechambers and galleries were soon filled to overflowing; and even the sick room was crowded with peers, privy counciUors, and foreign ministers. All the medical men of note in London were summoned. So high did political animosities run that the 'presence ot some Whig physicians was regarded as an extraordi- nary circumstance. One Roman Catholic, whose skill was then widely renowned, Doctor Thomas Short, wps in attendance. Several of the prescriptions have been preserved. ~ One of them is signed by fourteen doctors. The patient was bled largely. Hot iron was applied to his head. A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from human skulls, was forced into his mouth. He recovered his senses; but he was evidently in a situation of ex- treme danger. . The queen was for a time assiduous in her atten- dance. The Duke of York scarcely left his brother s bedside. The primate and four other bishops were then in London. They remained at Whitehall all day, and took it by turns to sit up at night in the king s room. The news of his illness filled the capital with sorrow and dismay. For his easy temper and affable manners had won the affection of a large part oi the nation; and those who most disliked him preferred his unprincipled levity to the stern and earnest bigotry ot his brother. IN I'ROSE. 87 indistinct, r. Several heir sove- effort to ;; but his Soon his i ; he ut- 3 of Tho- A.ilesbury. etorts and 10 lancet ; rhe blood jle. ordinarily ut persons J to enter, n filled to )wded with rs. AH the loned. So )resence of extraordi- vhose skill Short, WPS I have been jen doctors, vas applied racted from e recovered tion of ex- her atten- is brother's shops were hall all day, n the king's japital with and affable part of the referred his t bigotry of On the morning of Thursday, the fifth of February, the London Gazette announced that his majesty was going on well, and was thought by the physicians to be out of danger. The bells of all the churches rang merrily ; and preparations for bonfires were made in the streets. But in the evening it was known that a relapse had taken place, and that the medical atten- dants had given up all hope. The public mind was greatly disturbed; but there was no disposition to tu- mult. The Duke of York, who had already taken on himself to give orders, ascertained that the city was perfectly quiet, and that he might without difficulty be proclaimed as soon as his brother should expire. The king was in great pain, and complained that he felt as if a fire was burning within him. Yet he bore up against his sufferings with a fortitude which did not seem to belong to his soft and luxurious nature. The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that she fainted, and was carried senseless to her chamber. The prelates who were in waiting had from the first exhorted him to prepare for his end. They now thought it their duty to address him in a still more urgent manner. William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, an honest and pious man, used great freedom. "It is time," he said, "to speak out; for, sir, you are about to appear before a Judge who is no respecter of persons." The king answered not a word. Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, then tried his powers of persuasion. He was a man of parts and learning, of quick sensibility and stainless virtue. His elaborate works have long been forgotten ; but his morning and evening hymns are still repeated daily in thousands of dwellings. Though, like most of his order, zealous for monarchy, he was no sycophant. Before he became a bishop, he had maintained the honour of his gown by refusing, when the court was at Winchester, to let Eleanor Gwynn lodge in the house which he occupied there as a prebendary. The king had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit. Of all the prelates he liked Ken the best. It was to no pur- pose, however, that the good bishop now put forth all I S8 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS his eloquence. His solemn and pathetic exhortation awed and melted the bystanders, to such a degree that some among them believed him to be filled with the same spirit which, in the old time, had, by the mouths of Nathan and Elias, called sinful princes to repen- tance. Charles, however, was unmoved. He made no objection indeed when the service for the Visitation of the Sick was read. In reply to the pressing questions of the divines, he said that he was sorry for what he had done amiss; and he suffered the absolution to bo pronounced over him according to the forms of the Church of England : but, when he was urged to declare that he died in the communion of that Church, he seemed not to hear what was said; and nothing could induce him to take the Eucharist from the hands of the bishops. A table with hread and wine was brought to His bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he said that there was no hurry, and sometimes that he was too weak. Many attributed this apathy to contempt for divine things, and many to the stupor which often precedes death. But there were in the palace a few persons who knew better. Charles had never been a sincere member of the Established Church. His mind had long oscillated between Hobbism and Popery. When his health was good and his spirits high, he was a scoffer. In his few serious moments he was a Roman Catholic. The Duke of York was aware of this, but Was entirely occupied with the care of his own inte- rests. He had ordered the outports to be closed. He had posted detachments of the guards in different parts of the city. He had also procured the feeble signature of the dying king to an instrument by which some duties, granted only till the demise of the crown, were let to mrm for a term of three years. These things occupied th6 attention of James to such a degree that, though, on ordinary occasions, he was indiscreetly and unseasonably eager to bring over proselytes to his church, he never reflected that his brother was in danger of dying without the last sacraments. This neglect was the more extraordinary because the Duchess of York had, at the request of the queen, IN PROSE. 89 xhortation egree that I with the ;he mouths to repen- [e made no isitation of I questions ir what he ition to be rms of the urged to at Church, id nothing I the hands wine was letimes he es that he for divine n precedes 3W persons 1 a sincere mind had [•y. When , he was a 18 a Roman )f this, but own inte- ilosed. He Perent parts e signature ?hich some rown, were [lese things Jegree that, icreetly and ytes to his ler was in lots. This ecause the the queen, suggested, on the morning on which the king was taken ill, the propriety of procuring spiritual assist- ance. For such assistance Charles was at last indebted to an agency very different from that of his pious wife and sister-in-law. A life of frivolity and vice had not extinguished in the Duchess of Portsmouth all senti- ments of religion, or all that kindness which is the glory of her sex. The French ambassador, Barillon, who had come to the palace to inquire after the king paid her a visit. He found her in an agony of sorrow. She took him into a secret room, and poured out her whole heart to him. "I have," she said, "a thing of great moment to tell you. If it were known, my head would be in danger. The king is really and truly a Catholic i but he will die without being reconciled to the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant clergymen. I cannot enter it without giving scandal. The duke is thinking only of himself. Speak to him. Remind him that there is a soul at sake. He is master now. He can clear the room. Go this instant, or it will be too late." Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the duke aside, and delivered the message of the mistress. The conscience of James smote him. He started as if roused from sleep, and declared that nothing should prevent him from discharging the sacred duty, which had been too long delayed. Several schemes were discussed and rejected. At last the duke commanded the crowd to stand aloof, went to the bed, stooped down, and whispered something which none of the spectators could hear, but which they supposed to be some question about affairs of state. Charles answered in an audible voice, " Yes, yes, with all my heart." None of the bystanders, except the French ambas- sador, guessed that the king was declaring his wish to be admitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome. " Shall I bring a priest?" said the duke. *< Do, bro- ther," replied the sick man. "For God's sake do, and lose no time. But no; you will get into trouble.*' " If it costs me my life," said the duke, "I will fetch a priest." To find a priest, however, for such a purpose, at a I 9Q PROMISCUOUS SELKOTIOKS moment's notice, was not easy. For, as tUe law then stood, the person who admitted a proselyte into the Roman Catholic Church was guilty of a capital crime. The Count of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese nobleman, who, driven by political troubles from his native land, liad been hospitably receiv'^d at the English court, undertook to procure a confessor. He had recourse to his countrymen who belonged io the queen's house- hold ; but he found that none of her chaplains knew English or French enough to shriye the king. The duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian minister for a clergyman, when they heard that a Benedictine monk, named John Huddleston, bappened to be at Whitehall. This n»an had, with great risk to himself, saved the king's life after the battle of Wor- cester, and had, on that account, been, ever since the Restoration, a privileged person. In the sharpest pro- clamations which were put forth against popish priests, when false witnesses had inflamed the nation to fuiy, Huddleston had been excepted by name. He readily consented to put his life a second time in peril for his prince, but there was still a difficulty. 'I'he honest monk was so illiterate that he did not know what he ought to say on an occasion of such importance. He however obtained some hints, through the intervention of Castel Melhor, from a Portuguese ecclesiastic, and, thus instructed, was brought up the back staira by Chiffinch, a confidential servant, who, if the satires of that age are to be credited, had often introduced visi- tors of a very different description by the same en- trance. The duke then, in the king's name, commanded all who were present to quit the room, except Lewis Duras, Earl of Feversham, and John Granv/ille, Earl of Bath. Both these lords professed the Protestant religion; but James conceived that he could count on their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble birth, and nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank in the English army, and was chamberlain to the queen. Bath was groom of the stole. The duke's orders were obeyed; and even the phy- sicians withdrew. The back door wss then opened, iind Father Huddleston entered. A cloak had been in PRO.^B. 91 tlirovfn over his sacrtd vestments, and hia shaven crown was concealed by a flowing wig. " Sir," said the diike, " this good man once saved your life. Ha now comes to save your soul." Charles faintly answered, "He is welcome." Huddleston vvent through his part better than had been expected. He knelt by the bed, listened to the confession, pronounced the absolution, and administered extreme unction. He asked if the king wished to receive the Lord's Supper. "Surely," said Charles, "if I am not unworthy.'* The host was brought in. Charles feebly strove to rise and kneel bei'ore it. The priest bade him lie still, and assured him that God would accept the humiliation of the soul, and would not require the humiliation of the body. The king found so much diflSculty in swallow- ing the bread that it was necessary t«, open the door and to procure a glass of water. This Ate ended, the monk held up a crucifix before the penitent, charged him to fix his last thoughts on the siifierings of the Redeemer, and withdrew. The whole ceremony had occupied about three quarters of an hourj and, during that time, the courtiers who filled the outer room had communicated their suspicious to each other by whispers and significant glances. The door was at length thrown open, and the crowd again filled the chamber of death. It was now late in the evening. The king seemed much relieved by what had passed. His natural chil- dren were brought to his bedside; the Dukes of Grafton, Southampton, and Northumberland, sons of the Duchess of Cleveland, the Duke of St. Alban's, son of Eleanor Gwynn, and the Duke of Richmond, son of the Duchess of Portsmouth. Charles blessed them all, but spoke with peculiar tenderness to Richmond. One face which should have been there was wanting. The eldest and best beloved child was an ^xile and a wanderer. His name was not once mentioned by his father. During the night Charles earnestly recommended the Duchess of Portsmouth and her boy to the care of James ; "And do not," he gcod-naturedly added, " let poor Nelly starve." The queen sent excuses for her ?« rnoMiscuous selections I absence, by Halifax. She said thnt she was too much disordered to resiime her post by tlie couch, and im- plored pardon for any oifenco ' hich she might unwittingly have pivon. " She osk my pardon, poor woman !" cried Charles ; " I ask hers with all my heart." The morning light begun to p«rp through the win- dows of Whitehall; and Clmrle.H desired the attendants to pull aside tiui curtains, that he might have one more look at the day. He remarked that it was time to wind up a clock which stood near his bed. These little circunistances were long remembered, becouso they proved beyond dispute that, when he declared himself a Roman Catholic ho was in full possession of his facubirs. He apologized to those who had stood round him all night for the trouble which he had caused. He had been, h« said, a most unconscionable time dying; but ho hoped that they would excuse it. This was the last glimpse of that exquisite urbanity, so often found potent to charm away the resentment of a justly incensed nation. Soon rfter dawn the speech of the dying man failed. Hoforo ten his senses were gone. Great numbers had repaired to the churches at the hour of morning service. When the prayer for the king was read, loud groans and sobs showed how deeply his people felt for him. At noon on Fridoy, the sixth of February, he passe, away without a struggle. Macaulaij, Execution of Louis X VI. At nine o'clock Santcrre presented himself in the Temple. *' Ton come to seek me," said the king ; " allow nie a minute." Ha went into his closet, and immediately came out with his testament in his hand. " I pray you," said he, " to give this packet to tho queen, my wife." "That is no concern of mine," replied the worthy representative of the municipality ; " I am here only to conduct you to tlu! scaffold. " Thu kin^r then asked another member of the commune to take ch.irge of tho document, and said to Santerre, •' Let us set oC The municipality next day published the testa- IN PROSE. 98 mve one more ment, " as a proof of the fanaticism and crimes of the kingr" without intending it, they thereby raised the noblest monument to his memory. In passing through the court of the Temple, Louis cast a last look to the tower, which contained all that was drnr to him in the world; and immediately sum- moning up his courage, seated himself calmly in the carriage beside his confessor, with two gendarmes on the opposite bide. During the passage to the place of execution, which occupied two hours, he never ceased reciting the psalms which was pointed out by the vene- rable priest. Even the soldiers were astonished at his composure. The streets were filled with an immense crowd, who beheld in silent dismay the mournful pro- cession : a large body of troops surrounded the car- riage ; a double file of soldiers and National Guards, and a formidable array of cannon, rendered hopeless any attempt at rescue. When the proc(;ssion arrived at the place of execution, between the gardens of the Tuileries and the Champs Elysdes, he descended from the carriage, and undressed himself without the aid of the executioners, but testified a monr antary look of in- dignation when they began to bind hia hands. M. Edgeworth exclaimed, with almost inspired felicity, " Submit to that outrage as the last resemblance to the Saviour, who is about to recompense your sufferings." At these words he resigned himself, and walked to the fc tofthe scaffold. He there received the sublime benediction from his confessor, "Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven !" No sooner had he mounted, than, advancing with a firm step to the front of (he BcafFold, with one look he imposed silence on twenty drummers, placed there to prevent his being heard, and said, with a loud voice, " I die Innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge ; I pardon the authors of my death, and pray God that my blood may never fall upon France. And you, unhappy people — " At these words Snnterre ordered the drum's to beat ; the executioners seized the kinff. nnd tho Ai^aouniMnir nv» f^^fminnfuri !.;<> existence. One of the assistants seized the head and waved it in the air ; the blood fell on the confessor, wh( was still on his knees beside the lifeless body of his sovereign. Aliiton. 94 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS School-datfs of Napoleon, At an early age he was sent to the military school of Brienne. His character there underwent a rapid alter- ation. He became thoughtful, studious, contemplative, and diligent in the extreme. His proficiency, espe- cially in mathematics, was soon remarkable ; but the quickness of his temper, though subdued, was not ex- tinguished. On one occasion, having been subjected to a degrading punishment by his master, that of din- ing on his knees at the gate of the refectory, the mor- tification he experienced was so excessive that it pro- duced a violent vomiting, and a universal tremor of the nerves. But in the games of his companions he was inferior to none in spirit and agility, and already began to evince, in a decided predilection for military pursuits, the native bias of his mind. During th^ winter of 1783-4, so remarkable for its severity even in southern latitudes, the amusements of the boys without doors were completely stopped. Na- poleon proposed to his companions to beguile the weary hours by forming intrenchments anfl bastions of snow; with parapets, ravelins, and horn-works. The little army was divided into two parties, one of which was intrusted with the attack, the other with the defence of the works j and the mimic war was continued for several weeks, during which fractures and wounds were received on both sides. On another occasion, the wife of the porter of the school, well known to the boys for the iruit which she sold, having presented herself at the door of their theatre, to be allowed to see the Death of CcBsar^ which was to be played by the youths, and been refused an lenlrance, the sergeant at the door, in- duced by the vehemence of her manner, reported the matter to the young Napoleon, who was the officer in command on the occasion. " Remove that woman, who brings here the license of camps !" said the future ruler of the Revolution. It was the fortune of the school at Brienn(» at this ""***** *"* 4***-'* — '^~ 'izxiXTi T^ i ic- evil -*izii r:, i^ -^SiXlX^S i** •2pvy2CU*2| another boy, who rose to the highest ominence in the Revolution, Pichegru, afterwards conqueror of Holland. He was several yearf older than Napoleon, and in- IN PKOSE. 95 structed him in the elements of mathematics and the four first rules of arithmetic. Pichegru early perceiv- ed the firm character of his little pupil ; and when many years aftei*wards he had embraced the Roy- alist party, and it was proposed to him to sound ^'apoleon, then in command of the army of Italy, he replied, " Don't waste time upon him : I have known him from his infancy ; his character is inflexible ; he has taken his side, and will never swerve from it." The fate of these two illustrious men afterwards rose in painful contrast to each other : Pichegru was strangled in a dungeon when Napoleon was ascending the throne of France. The speculations of Napoleon at this time were more devoted to political than military subjects. His habits were thoughtful and solitary j and his conver- sation, even at that early age, was so remarkable for its reflection and energy, that it attracted the notice of the Abb6 Raynal, with whom he frequently lived in vacations, and who discoursed with hira on government, legislation, and the relations of commerce. He was distinguished by his Italian complexion, his piercing look, and the decided style of his expression : a pecu- liarity which frequently led to a vehemence of manner, which rendered him not generally popular with his schoolfellows. The moment their playtime arrived, he flew to the library of the school, where he read with avidity the liistorical works of the ancients, particular- ly Polybius, Plutarch, and Arrian. His companions disliked him on account of his not joining their games at these hours, and frequently ralUed him on his name and Corsican birth. He often said to Bourrienne, his earliest friend, with much bitterness, "I hate these French : I will do them all the mischief in my power." Notwithstanding this, his animosity had nothing un- generous in it ; and when he was intrusted, in his turn, with the enforcing of any regulation which was infring- ed, he preferred going to prison to informing against the young delinquents. Though his progress at school was respectable, it was not remarkable ; and the notes transmitted to government in 1 784 exhibited many other young men 9n PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS much more distinguished for their early proficiency —a circumstance frequently observable in those who ulti- mately rise to greatness. In the private instructions communicated to government by the masters of the school, he was characterized as of a " domineering, im- perious, and headstrong character." During the vacations of school, he returned, in general, to Corsica, where he gave vent to the ardour of his mind in traversing the mountains and valleys of that romantic island, and listening to the tales of feudal strife and family revenge by which its inhabitants are so re- markably distinguished. The celebrated Paoli, the hero of Corsica, accompanied him in some of these excursions, and explained to him on the road the actions wliich he had fought, and the positions which he had occupied, during his struggle for the independence of the island. The energy and decision of his companion at this period made a great impression on that illustrious man. «* Oh, Napoleon !" said he, " you do not resemble the moderns— you belong only to the heroes of Plutarch." Alison. Battle of the Pyramids. The sight of the Pyramids, and the anxious nature of the moment, inspired the French general with even more than usual ardour ; the sun glittered on those im- mense masses, which seemed to arise in height every step th^' soldiers advanced, and the army, sharing his ei liusiasra, gazed, as they marched, on the everlasting monuments. " Remember," said he, " that from the summit of those Pyramids forty centuries contemplate your actions." With his usual sagacity, the general had taken ex- traordinary precautions to ensure success against the formidable cavalry of the Desert. The divisions were all drawn up as before, in hollow squares six deep, the artillery at the angles, the generals and baggage in the centre. When they were in mass, the two sides ad- vanced in column, those in front and rear moved for- ward in their ranks, but the moment they were charg- ed, the whole were to halt, and face outward on every side. When they were themselves to charge, the three IN PROSE. 97 front ranks were to break off and form th^ column of attack, those in the rear remaining behind, still in square, but three deep only, to constitute the reserve Napoleon had no fears for the result, if the infantry were steady j his only apprehension was that his sol- diers, accustomed to charge, would yield to their im- petuosity too soon, and would not be brought to the immovable firmness which this species of warfare re- quired. Mourad Bey no sooner perceived the lateral move- ment of the French army, than, with a promptitude of aecision worthy ot a skilful general, he resolved to attack the columns while in the act of completing it An extraordinary movement was immediately observ- ed in the Mameluke line, and speedily seven thousand horsemen detached themselves from the remainder of the army and bore down upon the French columns. It was a terrible sight, capable of daunting the bravest troops, when this immense body of cavalry approached at full gallop the squares of infantry. The horsemen, admirably mounted and magnificently dressed, rent the air with heir cries The glitter of spears and cimi! ters dazzled the sight, while the earth groaned under the repeated and increasing thunder of their feet. The 8oldiei>, impressed, but not panic-struck, by the sight, stood firm, and anxiously waited, with their pieces ready, the order to fire. Desaix's division being en- tangled in a wood of palm-trees, was not completely formed when the swiftest of the Mamelukes came upou them ; they were, in consequence, partially broken and thirty or forty of the bravest of the ^assaitnU ZJfT' "^' '^^'^ '''' "'^«*^^ ^'^« square a the feet of the officers: but before the mass arrived the movement was completed, and a rapid fire of mZ. ketry and grape drove them from the front round the sides of the column. With matchless intrepidity, tloy pierced through the interval between Desaix^ and stiove to find on entrance : but a" iMn„..„„. el ^ ' every front mowed tbem do»„;8foet as th\7'„omed°^ ey dS'l- • ^r""' "' "■' "nexpec.ed%Lis,^!ce" they dashed their horses against the rampart of bay! I m 98 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS onets, and threw their pistols at the heads of the grenadiers, while many who had lost their steeds crept along the ground and cut at the legs of the front rank with their cimiters. In vain thousands succeed- ed, and galloped round the flaming walls of steel ; multitudes perished under the rolling fire which, with- out intermission, issued from the ranks, and at length the survivors, in despair, fled towards the camp from whence they had issued. Here, however, they were charged in flank by Napoleon at the head of Dugua s division, while those of Vial and Bon, on the extreme left, stormed the irtrenchments. The most horrible confusion now reigned in the camp ; the horsemen, driven in in disorder, trampled under foot the infantry, who, panic- struck at the route of the Mamelukes, on whom all |heir hopes were placed, abandoned their ranks, and rushed in crowds towards the boats to escape to the other side of the Nile. Numbers saved them- selves by swimming, but a great proportion perished in the attempt. The Mranelukes, rendered desperate, seeing no possibility of escape in that direction, fell upon the columns' who were approaching from the right, with their wings extended in order of attack ; but they, forming square again with inconceivable rapidity, repulsed them with great slaughter, and drove them finally off in the direction of the Pyramids. The intrenched camp, with all its artillery, stores, and baggage, fell into the hands of the victors. Several thousands of the Mamelukes were drowned or killed ; and of the formidable array which had appeared m such splendour in the morning, not more than two thousand five hundred escaped with Mourad Bey into Upper Egypt. The victors hardly lost two hundred men in the action ; and several days were occupied after it was over in stripping the slain of their magnifi- cent appointments, or fishing up the rich spoils which encumbered the banks of the Nile. Alison. Battle of the Nile, The British ships had a severe fire to sustain as they successively passed along the enemy's line to take up IN PROSE. 99 their appointed stations, and the great size of several of the French squadron rendered them more than a match for any single vessel the English could oppose to them. The Vanguard, which bore proudly down bearing the admiral's flag and six colours on different parts of the rigging, had every man at the first six guns on the forecastle killed or wounded in a few minutes and they were three times swept off before the action cosed. The Bellerophon dropped her stern anchor close under the bow of the L'Orient, and, notwith- standing the immense disproportion of force, continued to engage her first-rate antagonist till her own masts had all gone overboard, and every oflicer was either killed or wounded, when she drifted away with the tide, overwhelmed, but not subdued, a glorious monu- nient of unconquerable valour. As she floated alon^ she came close to the Swiftsure, which was cominff into action, and not having the lights at the mizen-peak. which Nelson had ordered as a signal by which his own ships might distinguish each othei-, she was at first mistaken for an enemy. Fortunately. Captain Hallowell, who commanded tha. vessel, had the pre- sence of mind to order his men not to fire till he ascer- tained whether the hulk was a friend or an enemy and thus a catastrophe was prevented which might have proved fatal to both of these ships. The statL taken bv hTS V. '" combating the L'Orient was now taken by the Swiftsure, which opened at oncoa steady fire on the quarter of the Franklin and the bows of the French admiral, while the Alexander anchored on his larboard quarter, and, with the Leander, completed the destruction of their gigantic opponent. ^ It was now dark, but both fleets were illuminated by the incessant discharge of above two thousand pieces roll^"'"' ^f ^he volumes of flame and smoke h^ rolled away from the bay gave it the appearance as if of thP IV v"' ^'^ r^^^"^^ ^"'•«* ^^'^h in the mids of the sea. Victory, however, soon declared for the British ; before nine. thv^.. Mr., ^f *u. i:__ u / ,® and two were dismasted ; anj^i^^ ^r^^^ ' nlTj^^^'V''"^ '^' ^'^"«"^' «« «he still con i. nued, with unabated energy, her heroic defence. They I 100 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Spread with frightful rapidity ; the fire of the Swift- sure was directed with such fatal precisica to the burning part, that all attempts to extinguish it proved ineffectual, and the masts and rigging were soon wrap- ped in flames, which threw a prodigious light over the heavens, and rendered the situation of every ship in both fleets distinctly visible. The sight redoubled the ardour of the British seamen, by exhibiting the shat- tered condition and lowered colours of so many of their enemies, and loud cheers from the whole fleet announced every successive flag that was struck. As the •fire approached the magazine of the L'Orient, many officers and men jumped overboard, and were picked up by the English boats; others were dragged into the port-holes of the nearest British ships, who for that purpose sus- pended their firing ; but the greater part of the crew, with heroic Wavery, stood to their guns to the last, and contirued to fire from the lower deck. At ten o'clock she blew up, with an explosion bo tremendous that nothing in ancient or modern war was ever equal to it. Every ship in the hostile fleets was shaken to its cen- tre ; the firing, by universal consent, ceased on both sides, and the tremendous explosion was followed by a silence still more awful, interrupted only, after the lapse of some minutes, by the splash of the shattered masts and yards falling into the water from the vast height to which they had been thrown. The British ships in the vicinity, with admirable coolness, had made preparations to avoid the conflagration ; all the shrouds and sails were thoroughly welted, and sailors stationed with buckets of water to extinguish any burning fragments which might fall upon their decks. By these means, although large burning masses fell on the Swiftsure and Alexander, they were extinguish- ed without doing any serious damage. After a pause often minutes the firing recommenced and continued without intermission till after midnight, when it gradually grew slacker, from the shattered condition of ^he French ships and the exhaustion of the British sailors, numbers of whom tell asleep beside their guns the instant a momentary cessation of load- ing took place. At daybreak the magnitude of the IN PBOSB. 101 victory was apparent ; not a vestige of the L'Orient was to be seen ; the frigate La Serieuse was sunk, and the whole French line, with the exception of the Guillaume Tell and Genereux, had struck their colours, These ships having been liitle engaged in the action' cut their cables, and stood out to sea, followed by the two frigates : they were gallantly pursued by (he Zealous, which was rapidly gaining on them; but as there was no other ship of the line in a condition to support her,, she was recalled, and these ships escaped. Had the Culloden not struck on the shoal, and the frigates belonged to the squadron been present, not one of the enemy's fleet would have escaped to convey the moui-n- ful tidings to France. Early in the battle, the English admiral received a. severe wound on the head, from a piece of Laigridge shot. Captain Berry caught him in his arrns as he was falling. Nelson, and all around him, thought, from the great effusion of blood, that he was killed. When he was carried to the cockpit, the surgeon quitted the seamen whose wounds he was dressing to attend to the admiral. "No," said Nelson; "I will take my turn with my brave fellows.'^' Nor would he suffer his wound to be examined till every man who had previously been brought down was properly attended to. Fully believing that the wound was mortal, and that he was about to die, as he had ever desired, in the moment of victory, he called for the chaplain, and desired him to deliver what he conceived to be his dy- ing remembrance to Lady Nelson; and, seizing a pen, contrived to write a few words, marking his devout sense of the success which had already been obtained. When the surgeon came in due time to inspect the wound— for no entreaties could prevail on him to let it be examined sooner— the most anxious silence pre- vailed; and the joy of the wounded men, and of the whole crew, when they found the injury was only superficial, gave Nelson deeper pleasure than the un- expected assurance that his own lifo w.is in sn A^p<,^^ When the cry rose that the L'Orient was on fire? he contrived to make his way, alone and unassisted, to the quarter-deck, where he instantly gave ordera I 10!2 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS i that boats should be despatched to the relief of the enemy. , -o • • u Nor were heroic deeds confined to the British squadron. Most of the captains of the French fleet were killed or wounded, and they all fought with the enthusiastic courage which is characteristic of their nation. The captain of the Tonnant, Petit Thouars, when both his legs were carried away by a cannon ball, refused to quit the quarter-deck, and made his crew swear not to strike thrir colours as long as they had a man capable of standing to their guns. Admiral Brueys died the death of the brave on his quarter-deck, ex- horting his men to continue the combat to the last ex- tremity. Casa Bianca, captain of the L'Orient, fell mortally wounded, when the flames were devouring that splendid vessel ; his son, a boy of ten years of age, was combating beside Wm when he was struck, and, embracing his father, resolutely refused to quit the ship, though a gunboat was come alongside to bring him off. He contrived to bind his dying parent to the mast, which had fallen into the sea, and floated off with the precious charge; he was seen after the explosion by some of the British squadron, who made the utmost efforts to save his life ; but, in the agitation of the waves following that dreadful event, both were swal- lowed up and seen no more. Alison. Defeat of the Old Guard at Waterloo. The Imperial Guard was divided into two columns, which, advancing from different parts of the field, were to converge to the decisive point on the British right centre, about midway between La Haye Sainte and the nearest enclosures of Hougoumont. Reille com- manded the first column, which was supported by all the infantry and cavalry which remained of his corps on either flank, and advanced up the hill in a slanting ^jj-ontinn. bftside. the orchard of Hougoumont. The second was headed by Ney in person, and moving down the chaussee of Charleroi to the bottom of the slope, it then inclined to the left, and leaving La Haye IN PROSE. 103 Sainte to the rJ^ht, mounted the slope, also in a slant- ing direction, converging towards the same point whither the other column was directing its steps. Napoleon went with this column as far as the place where it left the hollow of the high road, and spoke a few words — the last he ever addressed to his soldiers — to each battalion in passing. The men moved on with shouts of Vive PEmpereui\ so loud as to be heard along the whole British line, above the roar of artil- lery, and it was universally thought the emperor him- self was heading the attack. But, mr awhile, Wel- lington had not been idle. Sir FredPMc Adam's bri- ^ gade, consisting of the 52nd, 71st, and 95th, and General ' Maitland's brigade of Guards, which had been drawn from Hougoumont, with Chasse's Dutch troops, yet fresh, were ordered to bring up their right shoulders, and wheel inward, with their guns in front, towards the edge of the ridge ; and the whole batteries in that quarter inclined to the left, so as to expose the advan- cing columns coming up to a concentric fire on either flank : the central point, where the attack seemed like- ly to fall, was strengthened by nine heavy guns : the troops at that point were drawn up four deep, in the form of an interior angle : the Guards forming one side, the 73rd and 30th the other ; while the light cavalry of Vivian and Vandeleur was brought up behind the line, at the back of La Haye Sainte, and stationed close in the rear, so as to be ready to make the most of any advantage which might occur. It was a quarter past seven when the first column of the Old Guard, under Reille, advanced to the attack ; but the effect of the artillery on its flank was such, that the cavalry were quickly dispersed ; and the French battalions uncovered, showed their long flank to Adam's guns, which opened on them a fire so terrible, that the head of the column, constantly pushed on by the mass in rear, never advanced, but melted away as it came into the scene of carnage. Shortly after, Ney's column approached with an intrepid step: the veterans of TV agram and Austeriitz were there ; no force on earth seemed capable of resisting them : they had decided every former battle. Drouot was betide the marshal, I 104 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS i who repeatedly said to him they were about to gain a glorious victory. General Friant was killed by Ney's side : the marahal's own horse was shot under him ; but bravely advancing on foot, with his drawn sabre in his hand, he sought death from the enemy's volleys. The impulse of this massy column was at first irresistible ; the guns were forced back, and the Imperial Guard came up to within forty paces of the English Foot Guards, and the 73rd and 30th regiments. These men were lying down, four deep, in a small ditch behind the rough road which there goes along the summit of the ridge. " Up Guards, and at them !" cried the duke, who had repaired to the spot ; and the whole, on both sides of the pngle into which the French were t van- cing, springing up, moved forward a few paces, and' poured in a volley so close and well directed, that near- ly the whole first two ranks of the French fell at once. Gradually advancing, they uow pushed the immense column, yet bravely combating, down the slope ; and Wellington, at that decisive instant, ordered VivianV brigade to charge the retiring body on ono flank, while Adam's foot advanced against it on the other. The effect of this triple attack, at once in front and on both flanks, was decisive : the 52nd and 71st, swiftly con- verging inward, threw in so terrible a volley on their left flank, that the Imperial Guard swerved in disorder to the right ; and at that very instant the 10th, 18th, and 21st dragoons, under Vivian, bore down with irresistible fury, and piercing right through the body, threw it into irrecoverable confusion. The cry, <' Tout est perdu — la Garde recule !'* arose in the French ranks, and the enormous mass, driven headlrow down the hill, overwhelmed everything which came \am~Nf the master of her household, who had been secluded for some weeks from her pre- sence, was permitted to take his last farewell. At the sight of a mistress whom he tenderly loved, in such a situation, he melted into tears ; and as he was be- wailing her condition, and complaining of his own hard fate, in being appointed to carry the account of such a mournful event into Scotland, Mary replied, " Weep not, good Melvil, there is at present great cause for rejoicing. Thou shalt this day see Mary Stewart de- livered from all her cares, and such an end put to her tedious sufferings, as she has long expected. Bear witness that I die constant in my religion; firm in my fidelity towards Scotland; and unchanged in my affec- tion to France. Commend me to my son. Tell him I have done nothing injurious to his kingdom, to his honour, or to his rights; and God forgive all those who have thirsted without cause for my blood." With much difficulty, and after many entreaties, she prevailed on the two earls to allow Melvil, together with three of her men-servants and two of her maids, to attend her to the scaffold. It was erected in the same hall where she had been tried, raised a little above the floor, and covered, as well as a chair, the cushion, and block, with black cloth. Mary mounted the steps with alacrity, beheld all this apparatus of death with an unaltered countenance, and signing her- self with the cross, she sat down in the chair. Beale read the warrant for execution with a loud voice, to which she listened with a careless air, and like one occupied in other thoughts. Then the dean of Peter • borough began a devout discourse, suitable to her pre- »eiii condition, and offered up prayers to Keavcn in her behalf; but she declared that she could not in con- IN PROSE. 113 science hearken to the one, nor join with the other ; and kneeling down, repeated a Latin prayer. When the dean had finished his devotions, ahe, with an audi- ble voice, and in the English tongue, reconimended unto God the afflicted state of the church, and prayed for prosperity to her son, and for long life and peaceable reign to Elizabeth. She declared that she hoped for mercy only through the death of Christ, at the toot of whose image she now willingly shed her blood ; and lifting up and kissing the o jcifix, she thus addressed it: "As thy arms, O Jesus, were extended on the cross ; so with the outstretched arms of thy mercy re- ceive me, and forgive my sins." She then prepared for the block, by taking off her veil and upper garments ; and one of the executioners rr.dely endeavouring to assist, she gently checked him, and said with a smile, that she had not been accustom- ed to undress before so many spectators, nor to be served by such valets. With calm but undaunted for- titude, she laid her neck on the block ; and while one executioner held her hands, the other, at the second stroke, cut off her head, which falling out of its attire, discovered her hair already grown quite gray with cares and sorrows. The executioner held it up still streaming with blood, and the dean crying out, " So perish all queen Elizabeth's enemies," the earl of Kent alone answered Amen. The rest of the spectators continued silent, and drowned in tears; being inca- pable, at that moment, of any other sentiment but those of pity or admiration. Such was the tragical death of Mary, queen of Scots, after a life of forty-four years and two months, almost nineteen years of which she passed in captivity. The political parties which were formed in the king- dom during her reign, have subsisted under various denominations ever since that time. The rancour with which they were at first animated, hath descended to succeeding ages, and their prejudices, as wpU as their rage, have been perpetuated, and even augmented. x^xiuvii^ sumuiiaiiD, Vt'iiu v/cro Uiiucr inu viOlliiuluii OI Bii these passions, and who have either ascribed to her every virtuous and amiable quality, or have imputed to H4 PROMISCDOUS SKLECTIONS her all the vices of which the human heart is suscep- tible, we search in vain for Mary's real character. She neither merited the exaggerated praises of the one, nor the undistinguished censure of the other. Robertson. Abdication of the Emperor Charles V. Charlks resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the trans- action, and to perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp is might leave a lasting impression on the minds not only of his subjects but of his suc- cessor, called Philip out of England, where the peevish temper of his queen, which increased with her despair of having issi^e, rendered him extremely unhappy; and the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtain- ing the direction of their atFaira. Having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, on the twenty-fifth of October, Charles seated himself for the last time in the chair of state, on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid retinue of the princes of the empire and grandees of Spain standing behind him. The presi- dent of the council of Flanders, by his command, ex- plained in few words his intention in calling this extraor- dinary meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surren- dered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries, absolving his subjects there from the cath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip, his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the prince of Orange, because he was un- able to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience, and from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things IN PROSE. 115 which he had undertaken and performed since the com- mencement of his administration. He observed, that, from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughs and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visit- ed Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times. PLngland twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea ; that while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, azid his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire, nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impo- tent hand, which was no longer able to protect his sub- jects, or to secure to them the happiness which he wished they should enjoy ; that instead of a overeign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years; that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services, and in his last prayers to Almighty God would pour forth his most earnest petitions for their welfare. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, — " If," says he, " I had left you by my death this rich inheritance, to which I 116 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE. have made such large additions, some regard would have heen justly due to my memory on that account ; bat now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might .have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expression of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense, and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in you" powe'.% by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordi- nary proof which I, this day, give of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion ; maintain the catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eye*; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and if the time should ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such, qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him wdtk as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears, some from admi- ration of his magnanimity, others softened by the ex- pressions of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepest sor- row at losing a sovereign, who, during his administra- tion, had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. Robertson. II PULPIT ELOQUENCE. The Departed Spirits of the Just are Spectators of our Conduct on Earth. From what happened on the Mount of Transfigura- tion, we may infer, not only that the separated spirits of good men live and act, and enjoy happiness; but that they take some interest in the business of this world, and even that their interest in it has a connection with flie pursuits and habits of their former life. The vir- tuous cares which oecu'>ied them on earth, follow them into their new abode. Moses and Elias had spent the days of their temporal pilgrimage in promoting among their brethren, the knowledge and the worship of the true God. They are still attentive to the same great object; and enraptured at the prospect of its advance- ment, they descend on this occasion to animate the labours of Jesus, and to prepare him for his victory over the powers of hell. What a delightful subject of contemplation does this reflection open to the pious and benevolent mind! what a spring does it give to all the better energies of the heart ! Your labours of love, your plana of beneiiGence, your swellings of satisfaction in the rising reputation of those whose virtues you have cherished, will not, we have reason to hope, be terminated by the stroke of death. No! — ^your spirits will still linger around the objects of their former attachment; they will behold with rapture, even the distant effects of those beneficent institutions which they once delighted to rear; they will watch with a pious satisfaction over the growing prosperity of the country which they loved; with a parent's fondness, and a parent's exultation, they will share in the fame of their virtuous posterity; and— 'by the permission of God — they may descend, at times, as guardian angels, to snield them from danger, and to conduct them to glory! Of all the thoughts that can enter the human mind, this is one of the most animating and consolatory. It 118 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. scatters flowers around the bed of death. It enables 'js who are left behind, to support with firmness, the de- parture of our best beloved friends, because it teaches us that they are not lo3t to us for ever. They are still our friends. Though they be now gone to another apart- ment in our Father's house, they have carried with them the remembrance and the feeling of their former attachments. Though invisible to us — they bend from their dwelling on high, to cheer us in our pilgrimage of duty, to rejoice with us in our prosperity^ and, in the hour of virtuous exertion, to shed through our souls, the blessedness of heaven. Finlayson. Timh and Manner of the Arrival of Death. Death is called, in Scripture, the land without any order; and, without any order, the king of terrors makes his approaches in the world. The commission given from on high, was, " Go into the world: Strike! strike! so that the dead may alarm the living." Hence it is, that we seldom see men running the full career of life; growing old among their children's children, and then falling asleep in the arms of nature, a^. in the embraces of a kind mother — coming to the grave like a shock of corn fully ripe, like flowers that shut up at the close of the day. Death walks through the world without any order. He delights to surprise, to give a shock to mankind. Hence, he leaves the wretched to prolong the line of their sorrows, and cuts off the for- tunate in the midst of their career; he suffers the aged to survive himself, to outlive life, to stalk about the ghost of what he was; and aims his arrow at the heart of the young, who puts the evil day far from him. He delights to see the feeble carrying the vigorous to the grave, and the father building the tomb of his children. Often, when his approaches are least expected, he bursts at once upon the world, like an earthquake in the dead of night, or thunder in the serenest sky. Ail ages and conditions he sweeps away without distinction, the young man just entering into life, high in hope, PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 119 re, ao in the elated with joy, and promising to himself a length of yejrs; the father of a family, from the embraces of his wife and children; the man of the world, when his de- signs are ripening to execution, and the long expected n?Cl ^"J^"^^"* ^^^'"^ to approach. These, a^nd all others, are hurried promiscuously off the stage, and laid without order, in the common grave. Every path m the world leads to the tomb, and every ho;r J life hath been to some the last hour. T^^'^nToff"' '""' '' '^' °^^""*"' °^^««*^^'« ^PPr«ach. «nr?%;i^ ^"'''' '^^"'' ^ *'^«"«^"^ forms: pains hh ht? M-l"""'^'^"' ^"^ ^''^^^^ train-compose his host. Marking out unhappy man for their prey hey attack the seat of life, or the seat of understS ing; hurry him off the stage in an instant, or make hira pine by slow degrees. Blasting the bWm of life or waiting till the decline, according to the pa he S picture of Solomon, "they make the%trong m^en bow make the grinders cease; bring the daughters of music low; darken the sun and the mo'on, and the stars; smter fears in the way, and make desire itself to fa 1 Tntll he silver cord be loosed, and the golden bowl be Lken when the dust returns to the dust as it was, and the' spirit ascends to God who gave it. ' Tojan On the Threatened Invasion in 1803. By a series of criminal enterprises, by the success of gu% amb tion, the liberties of Eur^pehave been gra Sw^Lla"nrfn?.f V "^'^ ^"'J"^^'^^" '' H«"-«l owitzerland, and the free towns of Germany, has com- pleted hat catastrophe; and we are the only peopleTn ZTa\'''r''''''''.^''P -« '» po8sessio';iTequal evl; soot on Z 'r"''T'''''\ ^^^^^^°^' ^"^«« ^om JoZ^FZ l^^ Continent, has sought an asylum in rtuoue. out she la nnrana/i i^xr^n i — ^ ^ ' _ - with destruction; Tl^Qu^i^^^^C Fr^li^Z? here Z":! '"' '^''* «««". threatens to folWu^ nere. and we are most exaetly, most critically placed I 120 i f| ut HI 5»i PULPIT ELOQUENCK. ill in the only aperture where it can be successfully re- pelled—in th<3 Thermopylae of the world. As fur as the interests of freedom are concerned— the most im- portant by far of sublunary interests! — you, my coun- trymen, stand in the capacity of the federal representa- tives of the human race; for with you it is to deter- mine—under God — in what condition the latest pos- terity shall be born. Their fortunes are entrusted to your oare; and on your conduct, at this moment, depends lue colour and complexion of their destiny. If liberty, after being extinguished on the Continent, is suffered to expire here; whence is it ever to emerge in the midst of that thick night that will invest it? It remains with you, then, to decide, whether that free- dom, at whose voice the kingdoms of Europe awoke from the ^leep of ages, to run a career of virtuous emulation in every thing great and good; the freedom which dispelled the mists of superstition, and invited the nations to behold their God; whose magic torch kindled the rays of genius, the enthusiasm of poetry, and the flame of eloquence — the freedom which poured into our lap opulence and arts, and embellish life with innumerable institutions and improvements, till it be- came a theatre of wonders — it is for you to decide, whether this freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral pall, and wrapped in eternal gloom. It is not necessary to await your determination. In the solicitude you feel to approve yourselves worthy of such a trust, every thought of what is afflicting in warfare, every apprehension of danger, must vanish ; and you are impatient to mingle in the battle of the civilized world. Go then, ye defenders of your country, accom- panied with every auspicious omen; advance with ala- crity into the field, where God himself musters the host to war. Religion is too much interested in your success, not to lend you her aid. She will shed over tins enterprise her selectest influence. While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet- many, to the sanctuary. The faithful of every name Win cniploy that prayer which hus power with God. The feeble hands, which are unequal to any other wea- pon, will grasp the sword of the Spirit ; and from jtii. M i PULPIT KLOQDENCE. ]21 myriads of humble contrite hearts, the voice of intPr cession, supph'cation, and weeping, will minVe n IL" ascent to heaven with the shouts o bTtt^f and the shock of arras. The Pvtont «r "'*uie, ana tne God, is equal .„ t^e "uTt c "of^oCLuT "Brt' T'^Z Providence determine otherwLe should 1" 7 n '."' struggle, should .ho nation ^1-7^' Cmtv'e '.he' sa..sf„c..on-.he purest allotted to man-of hav n^ performed your part; your names wiiu" enroMed whh he most Illustrious dead, while posterity! «o the id If .line, as often as they revolve the «vpn.. „f X- • , °' and .hey will inces^santly^Ule Thl-wi ,'':„""n'';: you a reverential eye, while they mour^ over the frel dom which IS entombed in vour sen,,p7hl t p^ti^orevtt' t ^:^^^'^^:^s,'^::"Z fheir elevatea.:^; wtl" STtera^ff IT j:;^^;t;f e^Lrtr-L' '"dB:? ' -" illustrious immortals! Tour mantle •'JJt. ''''*°'*' ascended, and thousands, in^Sam^d w th y "urlri. IZ =^t;ru;jre?h?:;ran7u^^^ A \.J J^of^ni^s, and cemented with vour hlo«^ hntiL f^ . ' ^*"'*'' '^'^^ «"r hosts in the dav of rf»r.£^J^^-»•■••i";'^„■:i;:l:• quench {hem " " "' ""'" '''«^"*»^''' '^"^ none shall 122 jii*' pi nil PUtPn liLOQUKNCK. The Christian Mother, It' the sex, in their intercourse,»are of the highest im- portance to the moral and religious state of society, they are still more so in their domestic relations. What a public blessing, what an instrument of the most exalted good, is a virtuous Christian Mother! It would require a far other pen than mine, to trace the merits of such a character. How many perhaps who now hear me, feel that they owe to it all the virtue and piety that adorns them; or n?ay recollect, at this mo- ment, some saint in heaven, that brought them into light, to labour for their happiness, temporal and eter- nal! No one can be ignorant of the irresistible influ- ence which such a mother possesses, in forming the hearts of her children, at a season when nature takes in les- son an* example at every pore. Confin i by duty and inclination within the walls of her own house, eveiy Hour of her life becomes an hour of inMstruction, every feature of her conduct a transplanted virtue. Methinks I behold her encircled by her beloved charge, like a be- in^ more than human, to whom every mind is bent, and every eye directed — the eager simplicity of infancy in- haling from her lips the sacred truths of religion, in adapted phrase, and fnmiliar story— the whole rule of their moral and religious duties simplified for easier in- fusion. The countenance of this i nd and anxious pa- rent, all beaming with delight and lov; and her eye raised occasionally to heaven, in fervent supplication fiw a blessing on her work. Oh what a glorious part does such a woman act on the great theatre of human- ity; and how much is the mortal to be pitied, who is not struck with the image of such excellence! When I look to its consequences, direct an:! remote, I see the plant she has raised and cultivated, spreading through the community with the richest increase of fruit; I see her diffusing happiness and virtue through a great por- tioE of the human race; I can fancy generations yet un- born, rising to prove and to hail her worth ; and I adore that God, who can destine a single human oreaturb to be the stem of such extended and incalculable benefit to the world. Kirwan. PULPIT ELOQUENCE. J23 Ckri^eour Consolation and Belief, under theapprehm. sion of being separated by Death from those we Love Who ever left the precincts of mortalitv with^... casting a wishful look on what he left bSd and ' trembhng eye on the scene timt is before V^? B 1^ formed by our Creator for enjoyments even in .l.i. r?^ we ar^endowed with a «>nsib li^yTt^'ol e'cts' a'r'o fj tTlrn 1 ?ff«ction8, and we delight to induke them: we have hearts, and we want to bestow them Bad as the world is, we find in it objects oTrffectrn and attachment. Even in this waste and howl1„rw?r derness, there are spots of verdure and beautrof pow^^^^^ to charm the mind, and make us cry out " It i« 1?^T us to be here." When after'th^b Lvat onTnd ex' penence of years, we have found out the object of the soul, and met with minds congenial to our own what pangs must itgive to the hear!, to think of Z^m^ th« Ll 1 I '^^ ""1^" ^^^^ «h^^«^ we have often sat- the fields where we have frequently strayed ; the hiS ft «cene of contemplation, or the haunt of Sdshin b. erne oojects of passion to the mind, and upon ouHea^^^^ ng them excite a temporary sorrow and regret If tW things can affect us with uneasiness, how^ must^ the ftfflMjtion, when stretched upon thft hl-T f which we shall rise no more, andCing l^tVZ Inst time on the sad circle of our weeping frenl the\r"h "^'^^ ^% *^ «ffl'«tion..to disso) I at onl^;iI the attachments of life; to bid an eternal adiL tffi fnends whom we have long loved, and to part folevtr wrth all that is dear below the sun ! But let not H of h!:?f? 1' ^•«««"»«^«^^- He parts with h object^ tt woHd"' ? '"'V'''^ "^''^'^ '« n.eet themTn , ootter world, whure change never enf^rs. o«^ *._:_* -•vno«e biissfui mansions sorrow flies awav' ' TiTiy.T'"' ""roTChfn^T'" r'lr "'^^'^ "^^^^^^^^^^^ ^oa, When all the family of hr.iven are gathered to- o Sff PULPIT ELOQUENCE. gether — not one person shall be missing, that was wor- thy of thy affection or esteem. And if, among imper- fect creatures, and in a troubled world, the kind, the tender, and the generous affections, have such power to charm the heart, that even the tears which they occa- sion, delight us; what joy unspeakable and glorious will they produce, when they exist in perfect minds, and are improved by the purity of the heavens! Logan. Infatuation of Mankind, with regard to the Things of Time. But if no danger is to be apprehended while the thun- der of heaven rolls at a distance, believe me, when it collects over our heads, we maybe fatally convinced, that a well t?pent life is the only conductor that can avert the bolt. Let us reflect, that time waits for no man. Sleeping or waking, our days are on the wing. If we look to those that are past, they are but as a point. When I compare the present aspect of this city, with that which is exhibited within the short space of my own residence, what does the result present, but the most melancholy proof of human instability? New characters in every scene; new events, new principles, new passions; a new creation insensibly arisen from the ashes of the old; which side soever I look, the ravage of death has nearly renovated all. Scarcely do we look around us in lif< , when our children are matured, and remind us of the grave. The great feature of all na- ture is rapidity of growth and declension. Ages are renewed, but the figure of the world passeth away. God only remains the same. The torrent thnt sweeps by, runs at the base of his immutability; and he sees, with indignation, wretched mortals, as they pass along, insulting him by the visionary hope of sharing that at- tribute, which belongs to Him alone. It is to the incomprehensible oblivion of our mor- tality, that the world owes all its fascination. Observe for what man toils. Observe what it often costs him to become rich and great— dismal vicissitudes of hope and disappointment— often all that can degrade the dignity of his nature, and offend his God— study the PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 125 matter of the pedestal, and the instability of the statue Scarce 18 it erected,— scarce presented to the stare of the multitude-when death, starting like a massy frag- ment from the summit of a mountain, dashes the proud colossus into dust ! Where, then, is the promised fruit of all his toil? Where the wretched and deluded be- ing, who fondly promised himself that he had laid up much goods for many years?-Gone, my brethren, to his account a naked victim, trembling in the hands of the li ving God ! Yes, my brethren, the final catastrophe ot all human passions, is rapid as it is awful. Fancy yourselves on that bed from which you never shall rise and the refle(^/;ion will exhibit, like a true and faithful mirror, what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue. Happy they who meet that great, inevitable transition, full of daysl Unhappy they w'ho meet it but to tremble and despair! Then it is that man learns wisdom, when too late; then it is that every thing will forsake him, but his virtues or his crimes. To him the Uklfhl Pf«*^*^'f;Jie«»hon?"rs, pleasure, glory l-past like the cloud of the morning 1 nor could all that the great globe inherits, afford him, at that tremendous Hour, as much consolation as the recollection of having given but one cup of cold water to a child of wretched- ness, in the name of Christ Jesus! Kirwan Danger of Delay in Matters of Religion. By long delaying, your conversion may become alto- gether impossible. Habit, says the proverb, is a second nature ; and indeed t i« stronger than the first. At first, we easily take the bend, and are moulded by the hands of the master teration. The Ethiopian may as soon change his skin, and the eopard his spots; the tormented in hell may as soon revisit the earth; as those who have been lon";^ac! customed to do evil, may learn to do well. Such" s the Wise nnr>«;«*,..«.,* ..r TT _. _ - - oui.ll 18 lao J. .,,„_j..^ „. ^j^eavcn, lu aeter sinners from dp- ccH-rupted the whole capacity of the mind; when sin, by Its frequency and its duration, is woven into the ^ery 126 PULPIT ELOQUENCK. essence of the soul, and ia become part of ourselves; when the sense of moral good and evil is almost totally extinct; when conscience is seared, as with a hot iron; when the heart is so hard, that the arrows of the Almighty cannot pierce it; and when, by a long course of crimes, we have become, what the Scripture most em- phatically calls, ♦* vessels of ^'^rath fitted for destruc- tion;"— then we have filled ,v 1 e measure of our sins; then Almighty God swears i^ is wrath, that we shall not enter into his rest; then there remaineth no more sacrifice for sin, but a fearful looking-for of wrath and indignation, which shall devour the adversary. Al- mighty God, weary of bearing with the sons of men, delivers them over to a reprobate mind; when, like Pha- raoh, they survive only as monuments of wrath; when, like Esau, they cannot find a place for repentance, al- though they seek it carefully ^ith tears; when, like the foolish virgins, they come knocking— but the door of mercy is shut for ever! Further let me remind you, my brethren, that if you repent not now, perhaps you will not have another op- portunity. You say you will repent in some future period of time; but are you sure of arriving at that fu- ture period of time? Have you one hour in your hand? Have you one minute at your disposal? Boast not thy- self of to-morrow. Thou knowest not what a day may bring forth. Before to-morrow, multitudes shall be in another world. Art thou sure that thou art not of the number? Man knoweth not his time. As the fishes that are taken in an evil net, as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil hour. Can you recall to mind none of your companions— none of the partners of your follies and your sins, cut off in an unconverted state— cut off per- haps in the midst of an unfinished debauch, and hur- ried, with all their transgressions upon their head, to give in their account to God, the Juoge of all? Could I show you the state in which they are now; could an .^njypi from heaven unbar the ffates of the everlasting prfson; could you discern the late companions of your wanton hours, overwhelmed with torment and despair; could you hear the cry of their torment, which ascend- PtJLPIT ELOQUENCE. 127 eth up for ever and ever; could you hear them upbraid- ing you as the partners of their crimes, and accusin<^ you as in some measure the cause of their damnation '— Great God! how would your hair stand oh end! how woud your heart die within you! how would conscience fix all her stings, and remorse, awaking anew hell within you, torment you before the time! Had a like untirtc- ly fate snatched yo: away then, where had you been nowr' And is this the improvement which you make ot that longer day of grace with which Heaven has been pleased to favour you? Is this the returii you make to the Divine goodness, for prolonging your lives and indulging you with a longer day of repentance? Have you in good earnest determined within yourself that you will weary out the long-suffering of God, and torce destruction from his reluctant hand? I beseech, I implore you, my brethren* in the bonds of friendship, and in the bowels of the Lord: by the tender mercies of the God of Peace; by the dying love of a crucified Redeemef; by the precious promises and awful threatenmgs of the Gospel; by all your hopes of heaven, and fears of hell; by the worth of your im- mortal souls; and by all that is deaf to men, I coniure you to accept of the offers of mercy, and Hr from the wrath to come.— « Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now IS the day of salvation." All the trea-iures of heaven are now opening to yoU; the blood of Christ IS now speaking for the remission of your sins; the Church on earth stretches out its arms to receive you- the spirits of just men made perfect are eager to enrol you amongst the number of the blessed; the angels and archangels are waiting to break out into new hallelniahs joy on your return; the whole Trinity is now Em- ployed m your behalf; God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, ai this instant, o"^] upon you weary and heavy laden, to come unto ..lem. that ye may have rest unto your souls ! /„^„„ On the Death of the Princess Charlotte. That such an event should affect us in a manner ver? superior to similar calamities in private life, is agreeable 128 PULPIT KLOQCENCE. si^ifii..a' to the order of nature, and the will of God ; nor is tlie profound sensation it has produced, to be considered as the symbol of courtly adulation. The catastrophe itself, it is true, apart from its peculiar circumstances, is not a rare occurrence. Mothers often expire in the ineffectual effort to give birth to their offspring : both are consigned to the same tomb; and the survivor, after witressing the wreck of so many hopes and joys, is left to mourn alone, " refusing to be comforted, be- cause they are not." There is no sorrow which imagination can picture, no sign of anguish which nature, agonized and op- pressed, can exhibit, no accent of wo — but what is already familiar to the ear of fallen, afflicted humanity; and the roll which Ezekiel beheld flying through the heavens, inscribed within and without, " with sorrow, lamentatioh and wo," enters, sooner or later, into every house, and discharges its contents nto every bosom. But, in the private departments Oi life, the distressing incidents which occur, are confined to a narrow circle. The hope of an individual is crushed ; the happinv^oS of a family is destroyed; but the social system is unim- paired, and its movements experience no impediment, and sustain no sensible injury. The arrow passes through the air, which soon closes upon it, and all again is tranquil. But when the great lights and orna- ments of the world, placed aloft to conduct its inferior movements, are extinguished — such an event resembles the apocalyptic vial poured into that element which changes its whole temperature, and is the presage of fearful commotions, of thunders, and lightnings, and tempests. Born to inherit the most illustrious monarchy in the world, and united at an early period to the object of her choice, whose virtues amply justified her prefer- ence, the Princess enjoyed the highest connubial felicity; and had the prospect of combining all the tranquil enjoyment^^ of private life, with the splendour of a royal station. Placed on the summit of society, to her every eye was turned, in her every hope was cenfereu, and nothing was wanting to complete her felicity — excepting perpetuity. To a grandeur of PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 129 inind suiied to her illustrious birth and lofty deatina- tion, she joined an exquisite taste for the beauties of nature, and the charms of retirement ; where, far from the gaze of the multitude, and the frivolous agitations of fashionable life, she employed her hours in visiting with her illustrious consort, the cottages of the poor m improving her virtues, in perfecting her reasonf and acquiring the knowledge best adapted to qualify her tor the possession of power, and the cares of empire One thing was only wanting to render our satisfac- tion complete, in the prospect of the accession of such L?hroT7™T:r'^' ''^ "^'''^ ^^^^- ^^^^-^^ The long- wished-for moment at length arrived ; but. das! the event, anticipated with so much .age;ness, Ft is no'Li r """'* T>"^^ > P^«^^" our history It IS no reflection on this j.miable Princess to suppose, that ,n her early dawn, with the - dew of her ySuth" 80 fresh upon her, she anticipated a long series of years, and expected to be led through successive scenes a d be^r'T ; """^/^^^^ ^-'^^ otter in fascination herself wfh th "' "f *"''^ '^ '"P^^^'^^ ^^^ ^^^"tified iierself with this great nation, which she was born to govern; and that, while she contemplated its pre-em ! the globe Its colonies diffused through both hemig! fenSro'./'' benellcial effects of its ^institutions ex- tending to the whole earth ; she considered them as so many component parts of her own grandeur Her heart, we may well conceive, would often be .uffled that itT'T' ^^*''^-^^''"g ecstasy, when shereflecTed; that It was her province to live entirely for others • to compose the felicity of a great people ; to move i'n a nhiramh'''"^'r"'' ^^^^^ «^«P« ^- the exercise of enlightened ; and that, while others are doomed to pass through the world in obscurity, she was to supM socLt? ' K- ^'''^' ""^ ''' '"^P^'-t that impSlJe to society, which was to decide the destiny of future generations Yi,>^A ^.ruu *i... _..... " -^ "t./"*"*^® ZTut "'?• ?"'' distinguished of her predece"trT »l.e probably d,d not despair of reviving the renie"- 130 rULPIT ELOQUKNCE. r M brance of the brightest parts of their story, and of once more attaching the epoch of British glory to the annals of a female reign. It is needless to add, that the nation went with her, and probably outstripped her, in these delightful anticipations. We fondly hoped, that a life 80 inestimable would be protracted to a distant period, and that, after diffusing the blessings of & just land enlightened administration, and being ^ rounded by a numerous progeny, she would gradually, in a good old age, sink under the horiaon, amidst the embraces of her family, and the benedictions of her country. But, alas ! these delightful visions are fled ; and what do we behold in their room, but the funeral pall and shroud ; a palace in mourning, a nation in teafs, and the shadow of death settled over both like a cloud ! Oh the unspeakable vanity of human hopes I the in- curable blindness of man to futurity ! — ever doomed to grasp at shadows, to seize with avidity what turns to dust and ashes in his hand, " to sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind." Without the slightest warning, without the oppor- tunity of a moment's immediate preparation, in the midst of the deepest tranquillity — at midnight — a voic§ was heard in the palace, not of singing men and 'ing women, not of revelry and mirth ; but the cry, " Behold the bridegroom cometh !" The mother, in the bloom of youth, spared just long enough to hear the tidings of her infant's death, almost imme- diately, as if summoned by his spirit, follows him into eternity. " It is a night much to be remembered !" Who foretold this event ? Who conjectured it ? Who detected at a distance the faintest presage of its ap- proach ? — which, when it arrived, mocked the efforts of human skill, as much by their incapacity to prevent, as their inability to foresee it ! Unmoved by the tears of conjugal affection, unawed by the presence of gran- deur, and the prerogatives of power, inexorable death hastened to execute his stern commission, leaving no- thing to royalty itself, but to retire and weep. Who can fail tr\ Aianofn nn fViio atxrl^iil /%nnaai/-kn tha Vianrl nt Him who " bringeth princes to nothing, who maketh the judges of the earth as vanity ; who says, they PULPIT EI.OQUENCK. 131 shall not be planted ; yea, they shall not be sown ; yea their stock shall not take root in the earth ; and he shall blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the whirlwind shall take them away as stubble ?" But is it now any subject of regret, think you, to this amiable Princess so suddenly removed, « that her sun went down while it was yet day ;" or that, pre- maturely snatched from prospects the most brilliant and enchanting, she w?»3 compelled to close her eyes so soon on a world, of whose grandeur she formed so conspicuous a part? No ! in the full fruition of eternal joys, for which, we humbly hope, religion prepared her, she is so far from looking back with lint»erin«y regret on what she has quitted, that she is surprised i1 had the power of affecting her so much ; that she took so deep an interest in the scenes of this shadowy state of being, while so near to an '< eternal weight of glory;" and, so far as memory may be supposed to contribute to her happiness, by associating the present with the past, it is not by the recollection of her illus- trious birth and elerated prospects— but that she visited the abodes of the poor, and learned to weep with those that weep ; that, surrounded with the fascinations of pleasure, she was not inebriated by its charms ; that she resisted the strongest temptations to pride, pre- served her ears open to truth, was impatient of the voice of flattery; in a word, that she sought and cherished the inspirations of piety, and walked humbly with her God. ^ The nation has certainly not been wanting in the proper expression of its poignant regret at the sudden removal of this most lamented Princess ; nor ot their sympathy with the royal family, deprived, by this visitation, of its brightest ornament. Sorrow is painted in every countenance, the pursuits of business and of pleasure have been suspended, and the kingdom is covered with the signals of distress. But what (my friends) if it were lawful to indulge such a thouglit— what would be the funeral obSf;quie8 of a Inaf a^v.il 'J — .^1- cT^ui ; ixri II. ^ • . TTiicre snaii we uiiu the tears lit to be wept at such a spectacle ; or, could we realize the calamity, m all its extent, what tokens if commisera- 182 PDLPIT ELOQUENCE. K tion and concern would be deemed equal to the occa- sion ? Would it suffice for the sun to veil his light, and the moon her brightness ? to coi' ' the ocean with mourning, and the heavens with sackcloth ? or, were the whole fabric of nature to become animated and vocal, would it be possible for it to utter a groan too deep, or a cry too piercing, to express the magnitude and extent of such a catastrophe ? HalL On the Death of Princess Charlotte. Oh I how it tends to quiet the agitations of every earthly interest and earthly passion, when death steps forward, and demonstrates the littleness of them all — when he stamps a character ot such affecting insigni- ficance on all that we are contending for — when, as if to make known the greatness of his power in the sight of a whole country, he stalks in ghastly triumph over the might and the grandeur of its most august family, and singling out that member of it in whom the dear- est hopes and the gayest visions of the people were suspended, he, by one fatal and resistless blow, sends abroad the fame of his victory and his strength, throughout the wide extent of an afflicted nation! He has indeer' ^at & cruel and impressive mockery on all the glories of mortality. A few days ago, all looked so full of life, and promise, and security — when we read of the bustle of the great preparation— and were told of the skill and the talent that were pressed into the service — and heard of the goodly attendance of the most eminent of the nation—and how officers of state, and the titled dignitaries of the land, were charioted in splendour to the scene of expectation, as to the joys of an approaching holiday — yes, and were told too, that the bells of the surrounding villages were all in readiness for the merry peal of gratulatioii, and ihat the expectant metropolis of our empire, on tiptoe for the announcement of hei- future monarch, had her winged couriers of despatch to speed the welcome message to the ears of her citizens, and that from her an embassy of gladness was to travel over all the pro- vinces of the land ; and the country, forgetful of all PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 133 that she had suffered, was at length to offer the spec- tacle of one wide and rejoicing jubilee. O death! thou hast indeed chosen the time and the victim, for de- monstrating the grim ascendancy of thy power over all the hopes and fortunes of our species!— Our blooming Princess, whom fancy had decked v'ith the coronet of these realms, and under whose ^way all bade so fair for the good and the peace of the nation, has he placed upon her bier ! and, as if to fill up the measure of his triumph, has he laid by her side, that babe, who, but for him, might have been the monarch of a future generation; and he has done that, whicl av no single achievement he could otherwise have aa >i' plished— he has sent forth over the whole of our lai k, the gloom of such a bereavement as cannot be replaced by any living descendant of royalty— he has broken the direct succession of the monarchy of England— by one and the same disaster, has he awakened up the public anxieties of the country, and sent a pang as acute as that of the most woful visitation into the heart of each of its families. Amongst tUe rich, there is apt, at times, to rankle an injurious and unworthy impression of the poor— and just because these poor stand at a distance from them— just because they come not into contact with that which would draw them out in courteousness to their persons, and in benevolent attentions to their tamihes. Amongst the poor, on the other hand, there 18 often a disdainful suspicion of the wealthy, as if they were actuated by a proud indifference to them and to their concerns; and as if they were placed away Irom them at so distant and lofty an elevation, as not to require the exercise of any of those cordialif-s, which are ever sure to spring ia the bosom of man to man, when they come to know each other, and to have the actual sight of each other. But, let any accident place an individual of the higher before the eyes of the lower order, on the ground of their commo.i humanity --let the latter be made to see that the former are akin to themselves in all the suffarinss and in all the sensibilities of our common inheritance -let, for ex- ample, the greatest chieftain of the territc -y die, and 134 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. the repoii; of his weeping children, or of his distracted widow, be sent through the neighbourhood— or, let an infant of his family be in suffering, anJ the mothers of the humble vicinity be run to for counsel and assist- ance — or, in any other way, let the rich, instead of being viewed by their inferiors through the dim and distant medium of that fancied interval which separates the ranks of society, be seen as heirs of the same frailty, and as dependent on the same sympathies with themselves — and, at that moment, all the flood-gates of honest sympathy will be opened—and the lowest ser- vants of the establishment will join in the cry of di8treF«» which has come upon their family — and the neighbouring cottagers, to share in their grief, have only to recognise them as the partakers of one nature, and to perceive an assimilation of feelings and of cir- cumstances between them. Let me further apply all this to the sons and the daughters of royalty. The truth is, that they appear to the public eye as stalking on a platform so highly elevated above the general level of society, that it removes them, as it were, from all the ordinary sym- pathies of our nature. And though we read at times of their galas, and their birth-days, and their drawing- rooms, there is nothing in all this to attach us to their interests and their feelings, as the inhabitants of a familiar home, as the members of an affectionate family. Surrounded as they are with the glare of a splendid notoriety, we scarcely recognise them as men and as women, who can rejoice and weep, and pin^i with disease, and taste the sufferings of mortality, and be oppressed with anguish, and love with tenderness, and experience in their bosoms the same movements of grief or of affection that we do ourselves. And thus it is, that they labour under a real and heavy disad- vantage. Now, if, through nn accidental opening, the public should be favoured with a domestic exhibition — if, by some overpowering visitation of Providence upon an illustrious family, the members of it should come to bo recognised as the partakers of one common humanity with ourselves — if, instead of beholding th^m in their PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 135 gorgeousness as princes, we look to them in the natu- ral evolution of their sensibilities as men— if the stately palace should be turned into a house of mourning in one word, if death should do what he has already Jone, —He has met the Princess of England in the prime and promise of her days; and, as she was moving on- ward on her march to a hereditary throne, he has laid her at his feet.— Ah! my brethren, when the imagina- tion dwells on ti/at bed where the remains of departed youth and departed infancy are lying— when, instead of crowns and canopies of grandeur, it looks to the forlorn husband, and the weeping father, and the human feelings which agitate their bosoms, and the human tears which flow down their cheeks, and all such symptoms of deep affliction as bespeak the work- ings of suffering and dejectel nature— what ought to be, and what actually is, the ieeling of the country at so sad an exhibition? It is just the feeling of the domestics and the labourers at Claremont. All is soft and tender as womanhood. Nor is there a peasant in c ■ 'ind, who is not touched to the very heart, when 1 krf of the unhappy Strang, r, who is now.spend- ..r his days in grief, and his nights in sleeplessness— ue mourns alone in his darkened chamber, and refuses to be comforted— as he turns in vain for rest to his troubled feelings, and cranot find it— as he gazes on the memorials of an affection that blessed the brightest, happiest, shortest year of his existence— as he looks back on the endearments of the bygonr^ months, and the thought that they have for ever fleeted away from him, turns all to agony— as he looks for- ward on the blighted prospect of this world's pilgrim- age, and feels that all which bound him to existenc*>, is now torn irretrievably away from them! There I's not a British heart that does not fe^l to this interest- ing visitor, all the force and all the tenderness of a most affectini; relationship; and, go where he mav, will he ever bo recognised jmd cherished as a much- loved member of the British fami 136 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. J ; if On the Death of the Princess Charlotte. Yes, all earthly distinctions are destroyed at death. Sometimes, indeed, they may appear to remain. One man is honored w:th a splendid and imposing burial; another has a blazoned monument erected over him; a third may have historians to record his name, and poets to sing his praise. And in contrast to all these, a fourth may he laid in the base earth, and have not even a stone to tell where he lies, and fade from the remembrance, almost as soon as he passes from the sight of that world, in which he did little more than toil, and weep, and suffer. But let your eye pene- trate througli those showy and unsubstantial forms which custom, or affection, or vanity, has thrown over the graves of departed mortals, and behold how the mightiest and the meanest lie side by side in one common undistinguished ruin. Striking is the fact, and numerous are its proofs. Every day that passes over you, and every funeral that you attend, and every churchyard that you visit, gives you the affecting demonstration. And sometimes God, in his judgment, or in liis mercy, sends a proof of it which knocks loudly at the door of every heart, and sets a broad and a lasting seal upon the humbling truth. This proof he has lately sent us in the most solemn and pathetic form which it could possibly assume. There was one who had all that earthly greatness can confer ; who filled one of the most elevated and conspicuous stations to which mortals are ever born ; who had all of personal dignity, and accomplishment, and honor, that this world could afford ; and who, as her best and highest distinction, sat enthroned in the heart of her country, us their admiration and their hope. Such she was ; but it pleased God, whose creature and whose child she was, to assert his own sovereignty, and to illustrate the emptiness of all terrestrial grandeur, by taking Bway her breath ; and she died, and is returning to her dust. And what, think you, my friends, are the dis- tinctions in which she is now rejoicing ? Not in those with which she wa.s surrounucd and adorned on earth ; these have lost all their importance and all their charms. The Infinite Love of God. Theue are resources in the eternal mind, which are equally beyond our reach and our comprehension. There is a power, and a magnitude, and a richness in the love of God towards those upon whom it is set, to which the love of the creature cannot even approxi- mate, of which the imagination of the creature could not have formed any previous idea, and which, even to the experience of the creature, presents a subject of inscrutable mystery— a theme of wondering, gratitude and praise. Man may love, man should love, man must love his fellows ; but he never did, and never can ^loye them like God. His is a love that throws man's into the distance and the shade. Had he only loved as man loves, there would have been no salva- tion—no heaven- -no felicity for us— no glad tidings to eheer our hearts — no promised land on which to fix our anticipations— no table of commemoration and of communion spread for us in the wilderness, to re- fresh us amidst the toils, and the languishings, and the sorrows of our pilgrimage ihilher. His violated law must have taken its course ; the vials of his wrath must have been poured out ; and everlasting, unmiti- im rUI.riT ULOQUKNCK. liif gated ruin, must Imve been our portion. But, behold ! God is love itsolf ; and his love, in all its workings, and in all it influences, and in all its effects, can stoop to no parallel with the best and most ardent of human affections. Guilt, which forbids and represses man's love, awakens and kindles, and secures God's. Death for the guilty is too wide a gulf for man's love to pass over. God's love to the guilty is infinitely " stronger than death," and spurns at all such limits, and smiles at the agonies and the ignominies of a cross, that it may have its perfect work. God, in the exercise of his love towards our sinful and miserable race, is concerned, where man would be unmoved, indifferent and cold. God is full of pity, where man would frown with stern and relentless aversion. God for- gives, where man would condemn and punish. God saves, where man would destroy. J)r. Thomson. Funeral Sermon on the Death of Dr. Thomson. But the lesson is prodigiously enhanced when we pass from his pulpit to his household ministrations. I perhaps do him wrong, in supposing that any large proportion of his hearers did not know him personally — for such was his matchless superiority to fatigue, such the unconquerable strength and activity of his nature, that he may almost be said to have accomplished a sort of personal ubiquity among his people. But ere you can appreciate the whole effect of this, let me advert to a principle of very extensive o{)eration in nature. Painters know it well. They are aware, how much it adds to the force and beauty of any representation of theirs, when made strikingly and properly to contrast with the back-ground on which it is projected. And the same is as true of direct nature, set forth in one of her own immediate scenes, as of reflex nature, eet forth by tlie imagination and pencil of tlie artist. This is often exemplified in those Alpine wilds, where beauty may, at times, be seen embosomed in the lap of gran- deur — as whim at the basC oi a loiiy precipice, goiTiC spot of verdure, or peaceful cottage- home, seems to mm\e in more intense loveliness, because of the towering PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 139 strength and magnificence which are behind it. Apply this to character, and think how precisel}"- analogous the effect is— when, from the ground-work of a charac- ter that, mainly, in its texture and general aspect, is masculine, there do effloresce the forth-puttings of a softer nature, and those gentler charities of the heart, which come out irradiated in tenfold beauty, when they arise from a substratum of moral strength and grandeur underneath. It is thus, when the man of strength shows himself the man of tenderness : and he who, sturdy and impregnable in every righteous cause, makes his graceful descent to the ordinary com- panionships of life, is found to mingle, with kindred warmth, in all the cares and the sympathies of his fellow man. Such, I am sure, is the touching recollec- tion of very many who now hear me, and who can tell, in their own experience, that the vigour of his pulpit, was only equalled by the fidelity and the ten- derness of his household ministrations ; they understand the whole force and significance of the contrast I have now been speaking of—when the pastor of the church becomes the pastor of the family, and he who, in the crowded assembly, held imperial sway over every un- derstanding, entered some parent's lowly dwelling, and prayed and wept along with them over their infant's dying bed. It is on occasions like these, when the minister carries to its highest pitch the moral ascen- dancy which belongs to his station. It is this which furnishes him with a key to every heart, — and when the triumphs of charity are superadded to the triumphs of argument, then it is that he sits enthroned over the affections of a willing people. Chalmers, . 5 seems to Sitting in the Chair of the Scorner. The third and last stage of impiety, is "sitting in the chair of the scorner,'* or laughing at all religion and virtue. This is a pitch of diabolical attainment, to which few arrive. It requires a double portion of the infernal spirit, and a long experience in the mystery of iniquity, to become callous to every 1 3n8e of reli- gion, of virtue, and of honour; to throw off the antho- 140 PULPIT ELOQUBNCK. rity of nature, of conscience, and of God; to overleap the barrier of laws divine and human; and to endeavour to wrest the bolt from the red right-hand of the Om- nipotent. Difficult as the achievement is, we see it sometimes effected. We have seen persons who have gloried in their shame, and boasted of being vicious for the sake of vice. Such characters are monsters in the moral world! Figure to yourselves, my brethren, the anguish, the horror, the misery, the damnation such a person must endure, who must consider himself in a state of enmity with heaven and with earth; who has no pleasant reflection from the past, no peace in the present, and no hopes from the future; who must consider himself as a solitary being in the world; who has no friend without to pour balm into the cup of bitterness he is doomed to drink ; who has no friend above to comfort him, when there is none to help; and who has nought within him to compensate for that irreparable and that irredeemable loss. Such a person is as miserable as he is wicked. He is insensible to every emotion of friendship; he is lost to all sense of honour; he is seared to every feeling of virtue. In the class of those who sit in the chair of the scorner, we may include the whole race of infidels, who misemploy the engines of reason, or of ridicule, to overthrow the Christian religion. Were the dispute concerning a system of speculative opinions — which of themselves were of no importance to the hnppiness of mankind — it would be uncharitable to include them all under this censure. But on the Christian religion, not only the happiness, but the virtue of mankind de- pends. It is un undoubted fact, that religion is the strongest principle of virtue with all men ; and, with nine-tenths of mankind, is the only principle of virtue. Any attempt, therefore, to destroy it, must be consi- ilered as an attempt against the happiness, and against the virtue of the human kind. If the heathen philoso- phers did not attempt to subvert the false religion of their country, but, on the contrary, gave it the sanc- tion of iluiir exauipie; because, bad as it was, it had considerable influence on the manners of the people, and was better than no religion at all ; what shame. PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 141 what contempt, what infamy, ought they to incur, who endeavour to overthrow a religion which contains the noblest ideas of the Deity, and the purest system of morals that was ever taught upon earth? He is a traitor to his country, he is a traitor to the human kind, he 18 a traitor to Heaven, who abuses the talents that Crod has given him, in impious attempts to wa^-e war against Heaven, and to undermine that system of religion, which, of all things, is the best adapted to promote the happiness and the perfection of the human kind. Blessed, then, is the man who hath not brought himself into this sinful and miserable state— who hath held fast his innocence and integrity, in the midst of a degenerate world ; or if, in some unguarded hour, he hath been betrayed into an imprudent step, or over- taken in a fault, hath made ample amends for his tolly, by a life of penitence and of piety. Logan The Plurality of Worlds not an Argument against the Truth of Revelation. Keep all this in view, and you cannot fail to perceive how the principle, so finely u d so copiously illustrated m this chapter, may be brought to meet the infidelity we have tnus long been employed in combating. It was nature— and the experience of every bosom will athrm it— it was nature in the shepherd, to leave the ninety and nine of his flock forgotten and alone in the wilderness, and, betaking himself to the mountains, to give all h-s labour, and all his concern, to the pursuit ot one solitary wanderer. It was nature— and we are told, in the passage before us, that it is such a portion ot nature as belongs not merely to men, but to angels— when the woman, with her mind in a state of listlessness as to the nine pieces of silver that were in secure cus- tody, turned the whole force of her anxiety to the one piece which she had lost, and for which she had to light a candle, and to sweep the house, and to search diligently until she found it. It was nature in her to »jjjoice luoie over that piece, inan over all the rest ^' them; and to tell it abroad among friends and neigh- bours, that they might rejoice along with her. And, H2 PULPIT liLOQUliKCE. sadly effaced as humanity is in all her original linca* ments, this is a part of our nature, the very move- ments of which are experienced in heaven, "where there is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repent- ance." For any thing ] know, every planet that rolls in the immensity around me, may be a land of right- eousness, and be a member of the household of God; and have her secure dwelling place within that ample limit, which embraces his great and universal family: But I know at least of one wanderer; and how wofuUy she has strayed from peace and from purity; and how, in dreary alienation from him who made her, she has bewildered herself amongst those many devious tracks, which have carried her afar from the path of immor- tality; and how sadly tarnished all those beauties and felicities are, which promised, on that morning of her existence when God looked on her, and saw that all was very good — which promised so richly to bless and to adorn her; and how, in the eye of the whole un- fallen creation, she has renounced all this goodliness and is fast departing away from them into guilt, and wretchedness, and shame. Oh! if there be any truth in this chapter, and any sweet or touching nature in the principle which runs throughout all its parables; let us cease to wonder, though they who surround the thr(me of love should be looking so intently towards us — or though, in tlifi way by which they have singled us out, all the other orbs of space should, for one short season, on the scale of eternity, appear to be forgotten — or though, for every step of her recovery, and for every, individual who is rendered back again to the fold from which be was separated; another and another message of triumph should be made to circulate amongst the hosts of paradise — or though, lost as we are, and sunk in depravity as we are, all the sympathies of heaven should now be awake on the enterprise of him who has travailed, in the greatness of his strength, to seek and to save us. And here I cauiiot but remark how fine a hafmony there is between the law of sympathetic nature in heaven, and the most touching exhibitions of it on the rULPlT BLOQDSNCE. 143 face of our world. When one of a numerous house- hold droops under the power of disease, is not that the one to whom all the tenderness is iurned, and who, in a manner, monopolizes the inquiries of his neighbour- hood, and the care of his family? When the sighing ot the midnight storm sends a dismal foreboding into the mother's heart; to whom of all her offspring, I would ask, are her thoughts and her anxieties then wandering? Is it not to her sailor-boy, whom her fancy has placed amid the rude and angry surges of the ocean? Does not this, the hour of his apprehended danger, concentrate upon him the whole force of her wakeful meditations? and does not he engross, for a season, her every sensibility, and her every prayer? We sometimes hear of shipwrecked passengers thrown upon a barbarous shore j and seized upon by its prowl- ing inhabitants; and harried away through the tracks of a dreary and unknown wilderness; r nd sold into captivity; and loaded with the fetters of irrecoverable bondage; ar ' who, stripped of every other liberty but the liberty of thought, feel even this to be another ingredient of wretchedness— for what can they think ot but home? and, as all its kind and tender imagery comes upon their remembrance, how can they think of It but m the bitterness of despair? Oh, tell me, when the fame of all this disaster reaches his family, who is the member of it to whom is directed the full tide of Its griefs and of its sympathies?--who is it that, for weeks and for months, usurps their every feeling, and calls out their largest sacrifices, and sets them to the busiest expedients for getting him back again ?-^ who IS It that makes them forgetful of themselves and of all around them?— And teU me, if you can assign a limit to the pams, and the exertions, and the surren- ders, which afflicted parents and weeping sisters would make to seek and to save him? Chalmers. Christ^s Agony. --^rcisnASs! what an hour was that, which our Sa- viour passed in the garden of Gethsemanel In the time ot hia passion, his torments succeeded one another. 144 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. He was not at the same time betrayed, mocked, scour- ged, crowned with thorns, pierced with a spear, ex- tended on a cross, and forsaken by his Father: but here all these torments rose before him at once; all his pains were united together; what he was to endure in succession, now crowded into one moment, and his soul was overcome. At this time, too, the powers of dark- ness, it should seem, were permitted to work upon his imagination, to disturb his spirit, and make the vale through which he was to pass, appear more dark and gloomy. Add to this, that our Saviour having now come to the close of his public life, his whole mediatorial under- taking presented itself to his view; his eye ran over the hfstory of that race which he came to save, from the beginning to the end of time. He had a feeling of all the misery, and a sense of all the guilt of men. If he looked back into past times, what did he behold?— The earth a field of blood, a vale of tears, a theatre of crimes. If he cast his eyes upon that one in which he lived, what did he behold?— The nation, to whom he was sent, rejecting the counsel of God agaiast themselves, imprecating his blood to be upon them and their children, and bringing upon themselves such a desolation as has not happened to any other people. When he looked forward to succeeding ages, what did he behold?— He saw, that the wickedness of men was to continue and abound, to erect a Golgotha in every age, and, by obstinate impenitence, to crucify afresh the Son of God;— he saw, that, in his blessed name, and under the banners of his cross, the most atrocious crimes were to be committed, the sword of persecution to be drawn, the best blood of the earth to be shed, and the noblest spirits that ever graced the world to be cut off;- he saw, that, for many of the human race, all the efforts of saving mercy were to be defeated; that his death was to be of no avail, that his blood was to be shed in vain, that his agonies were to be lost, and that it had been happy for them if he had never been born;— he saw, that he was to be wounded in the house of his friends, that his name was to be blas- phemed among his own followers, that he was to be PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 145 dishonouied by the wicked lives of those who called hemselves h,s disc pies; that one man was to prefer the gams of iniquity, another the blandishments of pleasure, a third the indulgence of malicious desire and all of you, at times, the gratification of yTu; favourite passion-to the tender mercies of the God Wlfirthe'h ''' '^T 'n '' ^ ^^"-fi«^ I^edeemen While the hour revolved that spread forth all these things before his eyes, we need not wonder hit he greT drop'::? ST ^^^ '''' ^^ ^^^^^^ ^ ^l--! ttogan, TIk Deluding Influence of the World, ' Mr brethren, the true source oT aU our delusion is. false and deceitful security of life. Thousands pass to their account around us, and ,,e are not instfucted Some are struck in our very arms-our parents our children, our friends-and yet we stand asTwe'had shot into the earth an eternal root. Even th^ n,o,t sudden transitions from life to dust, produce but a m^omentary impression on the dust that breathes No samples, however awful, rink ^nto the heart. Every instant we see health, youth, beauty, titles, reputttltn and fortune^ disappear like a flash.'' Still do we paS gaily on, in the broad and flowery way the ^Z,\^ t oughtless, and irreclaimable bein^glj^'anting for eveT; pleasure as before, thirsting for r ches and nl '^ nence, .„,hing on the -elanclioly rn^s'of one CTh™' intriguing for the employments of those whose ashes re scares co d, nay, often, I fear, keepingan eye on the very e^tpinng, with the infamous v^w^of s^ri°" the earliest moment to solicit their spoils. ^ Great God! as if the all-devouring tomb, instead of its""! Te™""? "^ "" "!« '""''y "f »" hum n pu"5 suits, on the contrary, emitted sparks to rekindle all our attachment to a perishable world! Let me suppo^ my brethren, that the number of man's davs w.™ .nscnbed on his brow! Is it not cle"r fL.Y' T'Jl 3r^p °' .*"'".""""•'' «""' necessarily" be"get "the" most profound and operative reflection? Would it h! possible to banish, even for „ moment, the fatal .e™ G 146 PDLPIT ELOQUKNOK. from his thoughts? The nearer he approached it "Saninoreafe of alarml ^vhat an ncrease of lyht on the foUv of every thing but immortal good! Would 7\ his vUws and aspirins be confined, as they now M-e to the little apan that intervenes between his crad e ^d his grave; and care, and anxiety, and ■n.^"-«ti« ^ftatlf be his lot, merely to die overwhelmed w.th riches, and blazing with honours.' . . „„ No^ wedded to this miserable scene of ex.stence, oufhopls are afloat to the last. The unfe'«^"fj;;8' clear in every other point, casts not a ray on the nature of our condition, however desperate. To» frequent y it happens, that every one around us at that awful moment! conspires to' uphold this state of delusion They "Wr for us in their hearts, yet talk to us of recovery with their lips. From a principle of mistaken ot^Sve it its proper name, of barbarous lenity the mort fmportant of all truths is withheld, till it is of baps an instant of reflection to be made the rn^t of, Zhapa to be divided between the disnositjon of worWly affaire and the business of eternity! An 'Mtant "i rfSonrjuat God! to bewail an entire life of disorder -trSri faith the most lively, hope the most firm, love Zmost pare! An instant of .'««^,X"o fhe vly for a sinner whom vice may have infected to the very mar^owThis bones, when Reason is half eclipsed, and Sl^efeculties palsied by the strong grasp of death! Oh my br^toen, terrible is the fate of those, who are only^oused from a long and criminal security, by the swOTd of his divine justice already gleT'^g 'l*t evii Remember, that if any truch m religion be Ire repeated^ pressed on us.than another, it is to that as we live, so shall we inevitably die. Few ol ;;; I Im sure but live in the intention of throwing an ServaT of most serious reflection between he worU and tie erave. But let me warn you on that pmnt!- it ia not"aiven to man to bestow ius iieari ai.u i.uc^>-"- ol the present scene, and recall them when he pleases. No; every hour will draw our chains closer. Tlose PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 147 obstacles to better practice, which we find insuperable a this moment, wUl be more insuperable as we^go o^ JnJti f . '"^ *^^ P^''^°"«- The deeper the bed of the iTaid n,nr-'™r"^^^ '" change its course. The cUder and more inveterate a wound, the more painful the remedy, and more desperate the curs. J^an, There is no Peace to the Wicked, In truth, my brethren, there is not a sin, but what one way or another is punished in this life. We Tften err -^regiously by not attending to the distinction betw^n happiness, and the means of happiness. Power.ridr and prospenty--those means of happiness, and sources of enjoyment-i„ the course of Providence! are somt times conferred upon the worst of men. sJch persoS possess the good things of life, but they do nofen^; W? 7 .'^ ^""^ *^^ °*«^"« *>^ happiiess. but they have not happiness itself. A wicked man can never be happy It 13 the firm decree of HeavenletcTlal and unchangeable as Jehovah himseif^that mLery must ever attend on guilt; that, when sin Tnterf happiness takes its departure. There is no such S m nature, my brethren, -there is no snch in natu ^aa! a vicious or unlawful pleasure. What we generllfy call such, are pleasures in themselves lawful, procured by wrong means, or enjoyed in a wrong way; pr^ured by injustice, or enjoyed with intemperance ;i;n^dTr3y the mTn'."'^"'*^ r ^"t<^«»Perance have any charm ?X the mmd: and unless we are framed with a very un- Unrull S «"^'«°d intemperance fatal to the other IJnruly desires and bad passions-the gratification of aW :jV;r*^-«« ««»«d Pl-8ure~arf the source of dured i *^' "^'T^ ^" ^""^" "*«• When once in- dulged they rage for repeated gratification, and subject us, at all times, to their clamours and importuity. When they are gratified, if thev ,ive any joyLit is';he]ov of chard'a^iZ"' ''''' tor«^ented-ajoy which is" pur. ri«!f J ^""PT^ ^^ « g°*>^ conscience, which ribes on the rums of the public peace, and proceeds 148 rULPlT ELOQUKNCE. rl^ from the miseries of o;jr fellow-creatures. ^^he for- bidden fruit proves to be the apples of Sodom, and the erapes of Gomorrah. One deed of shame is succeeded by years of penitence and pain. A single indulgence of wrath has raised a conflagration, which neither the force of friendship, nor length of time, nor the vehe- mence of intercession, could mitigate or appease; and which could only be quenched by the effusion of hu- man blood. One drop from the cup of this powertul sorceress has turned living streams of joy into waters of bitterness. " There is no peace, saith my Uod, to the wicked." . • u* u«„a If a wicked man could be happy, who might have been so happy as Haman.-raised from an infenor sta- tion to great riches and power; exalted above his rivals, and above the princes of the empire; favourite and prime minister to the greatest monarch in the world? But with all these advantages on his side, and under all these smiles of fortune, his happiness was destroyed by the want of a bow, usual to those of his station, from one of the porters of the palace. Enraged with this neglect, this vain great man cried out, in the pang of disappointment, " All this availcth me no hing, so long as I see Mordecai sitting at the king s gate. This seeming affront sat deep on his mind. He medi- tated revenge. A single victim could not satisfy his mahce. He wanted to have a glutting vengeance. He resolved, for this purpose, to involve thousands in destruction, and to make a whole nation fall a sacrifice to the indulfe ace of his rnean-spirited P"de.--Hi8 wickedness proved his ruin, and he erected the gal- lows on which he himself was doomed to be hanged! If we consider man as an individual, we 8ha,ll see a further confirmation of the truth contained in the text, that " There is no peace to the wicked. In order to strengthen the obligations to virtue, At- mijjhty God hath rendered the practice ot sm fatal to our peace as individuals, as well as pernicious to our ;ntprn..t8 as members of society. From the sinner God withdraws his favour, and the light of his countenance. How dark will that mind be, which no ^^e*";/'*;"; *^.« Father of lights ever visits 1 -How joyless that heart, PDLPIT ELOQUENCE. 149 riteuaari6. which the spirit of life never animates! When sin en- tered into paradise, the angels of God forsook the place, bo from the soul that is polluted with guilt,— peace, and j^, and hope, those good angels, vanish and depart. What succeeds to this farailj of heaven?— Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. Logan. On the Importance of an Interest in the Divine Favour. If God be the great Ruler of the world, and governs It without interruption or control, of what infinite im- portance IS his favour I If an earthly ruler be our friend, we reckon that all our civil interests are secure: but if God doth accord- ing to his pleasure, both in heaven and in earth, in this world and the next; his favour must be life, and his loving kindness must be even better than life. It must be of all things the most desirable; for it com- prehends in It all things that are good. If his power could be controlled, if his will could be eluded, if his government could be interrupted, if any interest of ours lay without the reach of his sceptre or his influ- ence; we might then occasionally hesi. ate concerninff the importance of his favour, and deliberate whether in this season, or in that circumstance, we stood in need of it: but at all seasons, and in all circumstances, being absolutely in his hands ; holding our lives and comforts at his pleasure; suffering only through his appointment, and prolonging our days in joy or in sor- row according to his will ; capable, if he pleaseth. of immortal haj i)iness, and liable, if he commands it. to everlasting destruction; unable to resist him, and unable to recommend ourselves to any who can main- tam our interest against Gcd ; what is it that should t !f u ^* ^'^J^^' ""^ °"^ anxiety— what is it that snould be the constant subject of our concern, but that without which we must be wi" .ched ; possessed of Which no enmity can hurt us. and nn evJi ^««....,i.„i.^ or injure us? Would you that your friends shouid ove you ?-Make a friend of God. Would you that their neglect, if they do neglect you, should be better I } 150 rULPlT ELOQUENCE. to you than their love? — Make a friend of God. Would you that your enemies should be at peace with you ? — Be ye recoijciled to Heaven. Would you that their hatred should promote your interest? — Take care to have an interest in God. Would you prosper in the world ? — You cannot do it without God's help. Say not that your prosperity may be the result of the right and vigorous ap{)lication of your own powers. Ask yourselves from whom those powers are derived, by v'hom those powers are continued (o you, and who it is that forms the connections, and constitutes the conjunctures, that are favoumble to the ricfht and suc- cessful application of your abilities? Whatever are your views in life, you cannot attain them without God : and though he should assist you to attain them, yet Btill you cannot improve your real interests, you cannot enjoy them in unalloyed comfort — without God. Would you that your souls should prosper ? — It must be through his blessing. Are you weai-y of aiHiction? There is no aid but in the divine compassion. Are you burdened with a load of guilt ?— There is no hope for you but in the divine mercy. Is your heart sad ? — Your comfort must come from God. Is your soul re- joicing ?— God must prolong your joy; or, like the burning thorn, it will blaze and die. Does your inex- perienced youth neeu to be directed ? — God must be your guide. Does your declining age need to be sup- ported ?— God must bt^ your strength. The vigour of your manly age will wither, if God does not nourish and defend it ; and even prosperity is a curse, if God does not give a heart to relish and enjoy it. All hearts, all powers, are God's. Seek ye, then, the Lord while he is to be found ; seek his favour with your whole souls. It is a blessing that will well re- ward you for all that you can sacrifice to purchase it ; it is a blessing without which nothing else can bless you. His patience may, pei haps, for a moment suffer you to fcriuni[>li ; but do not thence conclude, that you enjoy his favour. If a good conscience do not tell you .^, i^.ijs.^.^ nn oAhpif uritni>ciii i for all the nleaaures that you boast are but li'-*) the pleasures of a bright morn- ing, and a gaudy equipage, to the mnlefacto", going to ?ULl'lr EI.OQUBN0B. J5| his oxeoution. Every moment you are in ieonardv • f"i7'"7 """"!•" ""^y P"' "■> ''"'i to your jSS ranrform your hope, and joys into desperate and help- ire ^8? " 1^"* ^"^ ^"^ '» '«"« J-°". ""-i yo^ to every tiding you fear. It is but for God to will i, heakh ,'^7 ," ^f" y"" ■•*»«'" ^hall forsake you yiur 2m '"'^''"' y.°" Wends, on whom yo^C sha fall, and your comforts, on which you are reioicinir shall distress you. It U but for God to will [t so Ln!i h,s moment shall begin a series of perplex ies' anl is butforG''. T'"',/" *"" ^"''^ «"-'' never'rd It 13 but ior God to will It so, and this night thv soi.l tt a r Zlf^TH' ''''']y tal>ernacleTthis'„."h ind tliini^ ^" ^^**' '^"^ *^y ^^-^^t ^^eath expire; earth h«nT'' *"' 'r'' '^^"^ ''^ ^» ^^ou loveds? on ^omhr^^^^^ '". '"^ '^"" '^'^''' - heaven Tpe^e with Gnd ?r' '- '^^ ^ "^""^"''^ ««^«*7' but Lr but^f^ '/i'^'^ '' r* * '"^'^^^t'^ solid com. ^iLn Id in '^'P ""l^^' «"•* M*'^^''- In every necessary to us. What infatuation, then, has sei/ed the sons of reason and of foresight, that you s^k Z dts^eTnfoS'n"'^' ^"'^^^'^ '* ia^h^t^uThelt to seek tor that favour which can alone fulfil the desires ner";'gSe:r' ^"'""' ""'"" '^o" -J?'- - T^A^ melancholy Effects of early UcenHomness (in ., Sermon preachef for tke Felle OrphaTuaule). Pkrhaps of all sources of corruption in human 8oci«fv «vtpno;L 1 '*^^— -which this institution, from the i^pf the"r.tt„j"e orst:rn,rrr:; r.t:„tir" ^^. -r^ir^ eter„;i^ix r known to produce on the morals of every JLk ,J 152 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 1S II the community; and I do say, when we deliberately look to the variously desperat complexion of that effect, there is no principle, Chiistiiin or social, that must not give superior importance to the preventive before us. How many parents, even in the highest order of life, can bear woful testimony to the total perversion of youth, by the seductions of the vicious part of the female sex! The fondest hopes of rising excellence disappointed; fortune opprobriously dissipa- ted; constitution radically broken down; living spec- tres of early decreptitude! Every ingrafted virtue, every sacrec. principle of education effaced; every vice that can dishonour human nature and religion spring- ing from this one impure root. Objects to whom they tenderly looked up for the pride and consolation of their age,^ often presenting nothin^^ to their eyes but the premature compound of the demon and the brute. TJ^is may appear to be s'rong language on the subject; but to know the world at all, is to know that it is more than justified. When youth is once allured into the mysteries of libertinism, there is no excess or enormity that is net swallowed like water. It is the property of this fatal evil evcii to mar the finest qualities of nature. Often are talents and spirits, fitted for the greatest purposes of society, entombed for ever in this sepulchre of the soul; nothing that be- longs to mind can have power to charm where mind would appear no more. If youths who might have pressed forward to the most honourable distinction, are daily to be seen without a spark of virtuous emulation — insensible even to that love of fame which, in default of purer motives, gives birth to such diversified objects of human ability — roaming through the capital with stupid and licentious gaze, dead to the respect of char- acter, and equally lost to their country and the world — impute it to no other cause than that unhappy corruption of morals, which extinguishes the nobler aspirings of man, to substitute the pursuits of a vile instinct. Would you vindicate, my brethren, the honour of religion and nature? would you behold in youth, the ambition of pre-eminence in virtue and usefulness? establish purity and severiiy of morale, by cutting off PULPiT ELOQDENCE. 153 the foul source of their depravation. Do this, I say and. instead of swarms of walking and ignomin ous nu^ances,you will have men-you'will hfve citizen Zw^toTT^tr ""^'^^ ""T'""^' of Christian practice, pnvate and public; instead of the affected and blasphe- mous language of infidelity-for the libertine is Sva- nably profane-you will have youth glorying in sub- mission to the sacred principles'of thiir relifion, and efre n7th ' ^'^7 "°^ ^^^^^^"» «P^^*««^^ oAts influ- ence on their conduct. ^,-^^„ Heliffion, the Dutinguishing Quality of our J^ature ^nlirV" ^!;\f «*^"g"i«h'"g quality of our nature, and IS one of the strongest features that marks the human character. As it is our distinguishing quahty, so it posses.es such extensive influence, that, however overlooked by superficial inquirers, t has given nse to moie revolutions in human society, and to more changes m human manners, than any one cause whatever. View mankind in every situ^atir from the earliest state of barbarity, down throug a U the successive periods of civilization, till they degene- rate o barbarity again; and you will find them influ- enced strongly by the awe of superior spirits oi Z dread of infernal fiends. In th'e heaZ world- where mankmd had no divine revelation, but follo.ved basis orth! •,"'*"'' '-^'^ne-'-el'-gion was often the Zl tl "-l S«^^»"^««"t- Among all classes of men, the sacrifices, the ceremonies, and the worship of the gods, were held in the highest reverence. Judse what a strong hold religion must have taken of the 17," \^V' '''^^"' 'nstigated by horror of conscience the blinded wretch has submitted to torture lis own flesh before the shrine of the incensed deity; a^dt^ ond father has been driven to offer up with his ow„ hands his first-born forhis transgre.sion.-thetuit of ns bod3. ,,, uie sin of his houI." It i. pos'sible to shake off the reverence, but not the dread of a Deity Amid the gay circle of his comn,m.Qnu__:„ *i.„ i..:'.: n.^ Z:Z&^, /bol^ may sa^ln^ lUs-^Lr ^ "»ere is no God; but his conscience will meet him when g2 154 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. mv he is alone, and tell him that he is a liar. Heaven will avenge its quarrel on his head. Judge then, my brethren, how miserable it must be for a being made after the image of God, thus to have his glory turned into shame. How dismal must the situation be for a subject of the divine government, to consider himself as acting upon a plan to counteract the decrees of God, to defeat the designs of eternal Providence, to deface in himself the image and the lineaments of heaven, to maintain a state of enmity and war with his Creator, and to associate with the infernal spirits, whose abode is darkness, and whose portion is despair! Reflections upon such a state will give its full mea- sure to the cup of trembling. Was not Belshazzar, the impious king of Babylon, a striking instance of what I an^ now saying? This monarch made a feast to a thousand of his lords; and assembled his princes, his concubines, and his wives. In order to increase the festivity, he sent for the consecrated vessels, which his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken fiom the temple of Jerusalem; and, in these vessels which were holy to the Lord, he made libations to his vain idols, and, in his heart, bade defiance to the God of Israel. But whilst thus he defied the living God — forth came the fingers of a man's hand, and, on the wall which had lately resounded with joy, wrote the sentence of his fate! In a moment, his countenance was changed, his whole frame shook, and his knees smote one against another; whilst the prophet, in awful accents, denounced his doom: '*0 man, thy kingdom is departed from thee!" Logan. On the Internal Proofs of the Christian Religion. The New Testament consists of histories and epistles. The historical books, namely, the Gospels and the Acts, are a continued narrative," embracing many years, and professing to give 'the history of tiie rise and progress of the religion. Now it is worthy of obser- vation, thet -^lese writings completely answer their end; trial rney ciiinpiuieiy soive ine piouiei'i, nowinis pecu- liar religion grew up and establisbosl itself in the PULPIT ELOQUENCE. j^g also worthy of remark 11^^*^ 1" °®""- ^' '» connect and'in^etweav^ hS^^^ l",; trf «'- so naturally and intimately alto fulr' ^T for detect on, as to -xelii,l» th,. .„ '"""sh no clue gruity and discor^nnS and a Vt^""^"*""" ''^.'"'""'■ Ssre;pSprf:::x-:-,t-^^^^^^^^^ Cl/ri^t\^rrtera^;ntd^ the agreement of the different wAtrsTli"""' the singular features of his mind S X ^ "^ "* same marks of truth runni?!. ,h 7 ^t^"" *"* *« marks of truth and reality, ns could not ^1 . '"? counterfeited Thr* u,i..Jo i • / • °' ^""^'^7 be 'night be exp;cte?LT^the aTuaT T '"""^^ ^"^^ «» a person as Lus cSt, i/suc^'a s'tate'^nr '' ^"^'^ then existed. " ^^^^'"^ ^^ society as The Epistles, if possible, abound in marks of tr, .k and reality, even more than the 6080^^ Th ^^ imbued thoroughly with the sni Ht^f^I^, ^^^^ *^« Christianitv. t/JIU^?. T"* ?^ th_e first age of !' f i^^^*^"^"^' ^"^ ^-^ constant op! portun.ties ot bestowing : and, believe me, he or she JlL-reit^^e"'' "'" ''" '-' '■'*'- -"- - are the earhest objects of watchfulness and interest: and every person, who has at all observed children,' ^l'n^.^"'^^°'^ exceedingly early these begin to de- velope hemselves. In fact, they appear almost with he first smile, or the first tear; and it is quite aston- hmg, how soon the infant can read the expression of the countenance, and how soon it becomes sensible of praise or blame. Long before it can either utter or nderstand a single syllable, the little physiognomist can decipher the sentiments of the mind, in fhe features perception of character, that, I think, I have never seen a child spontaneous^ extend its arms to a person who ^;as decidedly cruel or ill-natured. EvenTen b ;gm. I know that there is nothing more common w h parents, and with others who have the care of cluldren, than to laugh at violent bursts of bad temper or instances of peevishness and selfishness: and this thTsn^l!7 r ""^ P""'f "^' "^^"" ^'^ ' ^'*^«k supposition, Irolrnt ^ ^"^l"""^ ^^ easily subdued as the child grows older; or, to use the vnlo-nrn>,rnao 1 :. <'tsZ7 fT-'.u^''' ^ firmly^biliW;: that i^nir;: ''.ses out of ten, the requisite portion of sense never 160 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. comes ; whilst the pernicious tendency and habit as certainly remain. This may appear a very trifling, perhaps undignified, or even ludicrous remark : but, from experience and observation, 1 am deeply con- vinced of its importance ; well knowing, that nothing so materially tends to sweeten or to embitter the cup of human life, as temper. A. well-regulated temper is not only an abundant source of personal enjoyment and general respect to its fortunate possessor, but also of serious advantage to others, in all the social rela- tions. I have seen the mother of a family, under its hallowed influence, moving in the domestic circle with a radiant countenance, and, like the sun in the firma- ment, diff'using light and joy on all around her. I have seen her children artless and happy, her domestics re- spectful and contented, and her neighbours emulous in offices of courtesy and kindness. Above all, I have seen her husband returning, with a weary body and an anxious mind, from the harassing avocations of the world : but, the moment he set iiis foot upon his own threshold, and witnessed the smi^ng cheerfulness within; the cloud of care instant^ passed away from his brow, and his heart beat ligh y in his bosom ; and he felt how much substantial happiness a single indi- vidual, in a comparatively hu^ible station, may be enabled to dispense. Yet, how many scenes of a very different character are every day exhibited in the world, where the evils of poverty are augmented ten- fold, by the miserable burthen of a peevish and repin- ing spirit ; and where the blessings of affluence seem only to supply their possessors with additional means of manifesting the extent of wretchedness, personal and social, which ill regulated tempers are able to pro- duce ! Many a man, whose judgment is adequate to direct the destinies of nations, whose eloquence enrap- tures senates, and whose playful wit and vivid fancy render him the idol of the brilliant circles of fashion, is, nevertheless, totally unable to govern his own temper ; and never enters his home — that spot which, . of all others upon earth, should be peculiarly conse- crated to gentleness and affection— in any other char- acter than of a cold, gloomy, and capricious tyrant. PUI-PIT ELOQUENCE. Igj Let it be remembered, too, t^^t the influence of temper IS co-extensive with socif ly -ts if ; and it will not ap- pear a matter of trifl i.j mr- ^ent, to devise the best means of regulating -r» .-.straining a principle, so mtimatelj associated v. ..:> th general happiness of our 'P^^'^^- Montgomery, Character of Ruth, Ruth was a Moabitess by birth, bred among idolators, and if not herself an idolator when she came to Bethlehem, her language, « Thy God shall be my God," at least implies the absence of those elevated views of the supremacy of the one God, and the universality of his dominion, which it was the object of Judaism to inculcate. Little of morality could she have learned trom either the existing inhabitants, or the fabled gods, ot her native land. How absurd is the biffotry which, merely on the evidence of erroneous opinions, pronounces the condemnation of individual character' Ihe existence, or the absence, of moral worth, should always be ascertained as a matter of fact ; and not assumed as matter of inference from any tenets what- ever, however false, however extravagant. In prop - -- tion as their tendency is unfavourable, does it show the triumph of that law of God which is written on the heart. What a stimulus should such examples give to those who have every advantage for forming them to goodness ! What a powerful and affecting memento is It to the young, of the multiplied privileges of their condition! How many of the youth of the present day are in circumstances which afford a most felicitous contrast to those of some, whose dispositions and con- duct have yet done honour to humanity, and would have done honour to an infinitely purer faith than that m which they were educated! That you have the Jiihle in your hands, and so much of it peculiarly adapted to interest and influence your minds and hearts; that friends, parents, and teachers, combine, by the^gentle power of affection, to draw you on in wis- uouis ways--.wuy8 of pleasantness, and paths of peace, as they infallibly are ; that religion appears before you 162 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. in the native loveliness of her spirit — that spirit em- bodied in the words of the sacred volume— embodied, as we hope, in the livos of those about you : these are privileges, which (could you, as others more advanced in life, aee the full value of) would make you bless your God for his bonnty, in the fulness of your hearts, and from tlic bottom of your 'hearts, every night and morning; would make you intensely anxious to act up to your advantages, by the discharge of every religious duty, and of every social obligation of respect and goodness; and, w^ith a promptn>38s, a justice, and a fer- vency, which would do yourselves good, would call forth your applause and honourable emulution of the good in charactc* and conduct exhibived by others in less propitious circumstances. The excellence of the character before us was se- verely tried. A whirlwind of calamity had passed o V er the fugitive Israelitish family, with which she had connected herself, and that in a land where they were strangers, and she a denizen; she clung to the blighted trunk vrhich remained, when all its branches were torn off and scattered ; she adhered to Naomi, when Orpah shrunk back from the melancholy companionship ; she came into a land whose religion was strange, whose temper was unsocial, whose inhabitants always were proud and jealous of their privileges, and eminently exclusive in their spirit; she devoted herself to poverty and labour, and to all the resignation of personal en- joyment, and the forbearance and patience required in ministering to one on whom a forlorn old age, with its infirmities of body and of temper, was coming; and she »^'obly and triumphantly endured all tlmt her lot impoiied. Gcodness is majestjc and ven'^rable, even in the poorest and youngest, when it can abide such tests. Sorrow is the refiner's fire of Providence, to try the purity, ana exhibit in splendour the purity of early worth and virtue. The calamities of a parent, show the merits of a child. To our young friends we would iay. Far from you may that trial be ! but should it come, should the fluctuations of commerce, the inflic- tions of disease, or any other storm of distress burst over the heads of those to whom you owe so much; oli PULPIT ELOQUENCE. \QQ tThl^^ {• u T/*,*^'««' «n^ attention, and exer- tion, be a shield of defence for them, as they will be a crown ot gloiy to yourselves ! ^ ^^Jf ;J*ceilence was honourably rewarded. It was rewarded by her coming into a land where that God was known, whose government is the security and blessedness of those who do his will ; by the station °o tttst o7tr "^'^-^*^:^^--d; by' he"; being one „ AhJ f.\Progen,ters of the promised seed of Abraham, which was a coveted glory in Israel • bv thn memonal which has made hername^and charact'^^and history, known and celebrated through long ages and over distant regions; and by that final recompense of heaven, which awaits the excellent of earth Ind heaven and earth conspire to reward goodness. Though the Jewish economy, with its temporal sanctions, has passed away; there is many a promise of the li?e%ha nnl «• if^^^'"'''' "' ^^" ^« «f t^^at which is to come Riches are not promised; fam3 is not promised- b£L"of"tLP''T^"'%**V* --^^-» earth's Test blessing of the esteem of the estimable be withheld • and never an internal quiet, peace, self-approbat^on' and hope, which do for present happiness mSch more' while they harmoniously blend with the future hTppi: ness towards which they point and conduct. |^ The Union of Friendship with Religion recommended. Friendship, considered as the medicine of life,— a« fanVvTo^^"''^"^ '"*'°"^ enjoyment in this in- ancy of our being, possesses „o mean value; but Low nfinitely is that value enhanced, whea we regard it as he gjiide to immortality ! Who might be sadsfied Z br a friend for time, when he might be one for eternity? Who would rest contented to minister to a mere tern- Porary gratification, when he might impart a solid substantial, never-fading bli..? Look ^.round IT; brethren, upon those who are dear to you What ia ft nnri'I* " " " ^"-^"iwus v^ou citii OeMtuw, — blis*. Dure, vot o?""-! ""'' , ir™""*""- ■''«"«" 'I"""- "-''. by your ei.mple and l,y your convocation, by th« reiei^. 164 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. ence with which you speak of God's awful perfections, by the gratitude with which you make mention cf his overflowing mercies, by the firm confidence which you ♦express in his glorious promises, — only teach thera to lo . 3 God, with pure hearts, fervently ; and the most ardent wishes that you can frame for their happiness, will be realized. Truth is always beautiful and lovely; but religious truth has a dignity and interest peculiar to itself. Who shall estimate its possible effects, when displayed in its native power, and urged home to the heart by the voice of a friend, at those seasons when the heart is warmest, and most susceptible of every virtuous impression ? Were it not for the pernicious influence of false shame, which has often led even the wise and good, from a fear of being thought hypocriti- cal or righteous overmuch, to withhold the honest ex- pression of their best and purest feelings ; the voice of virtuous friendship might have early reclaimed and persuaded many a lost sinner, — invigorated and warmed, with the holy glow of piety and benevolence, many a cold and lifeless Christian. " He who turns a sinner from the error of his way," says an Apostle, " shall save a soul from death, and cover its multitude of sins." This is an affecting consideration, and should actively influence our conduct, however remote and unconnected with us by ties of love or kindred the Tdllow-being who is the subject of it: but should this fellow-being be a friend, how unspeakably is the inter- est increased ! Glorious ofiice, to save the soul of a friend from death, — to open for a friend the gates of paradise ! Blessed and happy privilege, to make the partners of our earthly journey our associates for ever- more ! This privilege every one may exercise and enjoy, in a greater or less degree, who is careful to cultivate in himself, and to carry with him into the familiar intercourses of social life, the purifying spirit of religion. Even where there is most virtue, such is the frailty of our nature, that many faults will still exist, both in ourselves and those who are dear to us, the removal, or even nnrtial correction, of anv one of — — - ^, — J- . , _, which, cannot but prove an everlasting benefit. Every deficiency in moral excellence, in the degree in which PULPIT ELOQUENCE. jg^ perfectly virtuous Til t^If", Z"'" ""S P^^'^ and disposition wWch ihe dLtr "''^I^ "^ «™P" «>"i remove, wil7rem aLJ, ^'^ ^ "^ "''' ^"''^ <■""» '» «w«y,-:to delavre'reTL ""/TP"'"' '*'" '° •>« ^one continue, the^^^^t fo^htavt'Z'th"^^ 1 ""^^ leases the mind of a friend frL ♦? ' u ™.' '^''» "■«- wS ?e' far"' --T - 4- tih ™^:tt wnicn lie can never loqp in ♦!,« : /• •. ««gree perfection: bv a miWpr a!!l ! J"^"**^ progress to renders needless "he n H? • "T ^'"^^^^"^ P^«^«««' ^e chastisemem he t re Lt!t'^ ^"* Pf'"/"' ^^«^'>""^ «f his friend's everLltjor^H^^^^^ understand of the trua v«„of J •'?''"' ''^^^^ he friendship gives who r^li ""-. *^' i"^"""^^ ^^^^h minister to ?hrt;m^nr«1 f 'i ^'' ^'^^^'^ «i« to cations, or the tri™inr« ""'"*'* ''^^ ^hort-lived gratifi- sociate who e imroftaTr .T^'' '- '^' ^^'"^^^ ««- wisdom anrw rXtl «n^ ™'^^* ^"^^'^^ ^'^ joyful admissionTntotTatVor1d'wh-V'^ T^"^-^ ^^^ * cannot inherit ' ^ "^^'^^ ^^«^ a°d blood that we have over PArh n?i ^ u ^''^ """*"«* influence countable to Him rf "^ "''"<"; »'- «« 8«ri,.tljr ac- noblest purposes,-!!?' ;.e d4 , ' J, '"^""T '° ">« 'urcs of tlfe hpirt l" • '"fl""'"''"- 'l>ese trea- purchasc " . veZ in^ t bJta"'! ''!' f:7'"^'1- '"'k"' for our fnends, „pon fhe tr fle "f .arth l^^-"" "'"' Ruilt and oaf ,rdBi».» ,.:„-■,.•."'' »'™e i our Co„seie«ee. .f „ ;„rrfor 2 Z '"^'^^ "= «"»'• *ill pronjunee ^ur Mn «I S"""'""' °" "'« '"''Jcc'. the bed of death- „r''t ^"^1^^ » *''•'*'"'' "P"" from vo,, hv .":B,.;'!iP":-':J'.'.'? «':''" »"d'lc»ly severod row and 8eif-aio„Mtin""'',i'L'."'*~',' """ ■""'' "'' «»•- p--nbCdr;r;ra£U'"rm*:ri^''™'- 166 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. love ?— that, when you shall appear together before the awful judgment-seat of God, all traces of your con- nection shall have vanished for ever with the fleeting shadows of time? The case, had you acted other- wise, might have been very different. " Father," he might have had the power to say, "this was indeed my friend. He told me of Thj perfections, and he taught me to love Thee; he spake to me of the Saviour whom Thou didst send, and persuaded me to follow in his footsteps; he admonished me with truth and tenderness of my faults, and besought me, as I valued Thy favour, and his friendship, and ray own salvation, to turn from them. If I now stand in Thy presence, a forgiven sinner, and rejoice in the light of Thy countenance, it is to him, under Thy favour and blessing, that I owe it ; for ♦ we took sweet counsel together,' and * walked to thy house of prayer in company,' and * spake often one to another, as those who feared the Lord.' Reli- gion sanctified and blessed our earthly intercourse. Father of mercies," might he have plea led, " if it be Thy will, suffer not our intercourse to be interrupted now ; let not remaining frailty separate between us ; but, if it be possible, give me my friend." O foolish mortal! to neglect to secure sup- porter in thy hour of need — such an advov gainst thy day of trembling ! Bat, what if thou huiM been worse than negligent,— -if thou hast ministered to the follies, — if thou hast corrupted the virtues,— -if thou hast confirmed the vices, of thy friend, of him who loved thee, and sat at thy table, and drank of thy counsel like water ? Unhappy man ! hast thou not sine enough of thine own to answer for ?— hast thou not sorrows enough of thine own to bear ? How shalt thou endure to hear the groans, the lamentations, the bosom-rending sorrows of him whose hope thou hast cut off, whose buo ' life thou hast blighted, whose stream of happi- ness thou hast polluted at its source ! Then, inUeed, shalt thou exclaim, with bitter anguish, " If it was on enemy, I could have borne it ; but it was mine ov,n familiar friend." O think— ye who in your misnamod friendships despise religion— ye who scruple not to pollute tlie virtue of those whom you profess to love— rcourse. PULPIT JCLOQUENCE. jgy yourselves. ^i^A reli^Z T^' aJ^ -^'^^ "**' "Pon ing possession , t ot^VS t'^b^^u^fufr'-.r -ess." It Tsr^ee^r.""^ ^"'"Ti'"' ''"d «f d-rk- of his omdCXZ^"l''^i^I^Z:^''T'^r°''''^ the soni of him who nnffff^ n ^'*''•■ "»'' "^ '<> wUAoue religion' I? ff»h ^ut what is friendship transient goS^a meteor ,h . I '^'"" " ^"'^'"S »"« upon o«r^;::?h. ^W r.i;e Lt eV/r*'"'''""^'''^''' caught, than it vanishw. f„!^ ^ ''*^ "° '"one"- dash^ fron, .,« H^s :lrosf LfJ-^'iTor^ IT'^ ffaUon. On tie Education of Females. the Intrar^ iTonsider .Z^ a«comp'i»hn,ents." On rationally pursued «,L!^ '.,"'''? moderately and the tast^ ana harmoni^Tr '/ ?"''"'"'<^ *° ^''«»« possess them" wW™thr„± ^^ ,'"«' "*' *'«"« "••■> the intercourse rftl,.^^ powerfully tend to sweeten augmenTtren^^mentsTfT"' ""? ''"^'^'^ <">«'«■ '" a sunshine over^C „T °*^«°™r?' »"«oty, and to cast the ten thouZdn'f^"^ ;"""'«" "^ '""«• Amidst mind and thr.Diri, "•''"'' ?"' "^ "'^ ""'W. the Wy, and the tasJ,' ? ^'axation, as well «s the pecullariy fu them for the J''- ■.'^'''™'» "^ "o™" plishraenis, which interest .h«"'^°" "' """^ "<"«'"- >i-y soothe theteir Many a"ti::r"t^T'"'"'* »fter a toilsome " d "n,i„,T, Y , '.' ""^ ^ "eo". ••.-•re, and oonslor' • mTT ^' '*'""'8 '''" '"•»»' "f ™paid, whTt ;1L ;,ai'„l'.,' !"«'™» a» more than P'ovement, or joined ^h^ln '^.' """*'' *'"' ™- children, a nd ci^t p Hi '""o"^"! amusements of his faithful coCro?of"ttf '';«l".^-'r -P-. the «"og8 and such enjoj^meuts Yet, I am per- 16B PULPIT ELOQUENCE. suaded, that accomplishments should only be the adjuncts of education, and not its principal business, or its chief end: and, in my mind, there is nothing incompatible between elegance and solidity. On the contrary, I am convinced, that the mind which is most enlarged by the possession of substantial knowledge, is the best calculated to appreciate and to enjoy those less serious branches of education, which tend to cheer and to ornament society. I do not despair of seeing the time, when young females shall consider them- selves inenitely better employed in reading the real history of nations, than in perusing volumes of unna- tural fiction, which only fills the mind with false ideas, and the heart with injurious feelings— when they shall be no more ashamed of learning ancient than modern language*, or of attending instructions in philosophy which would enlarge their understandings, than of frequenting the gaudy circles of fashion and amuse- ment—when they shall think it more honourable to possess such a knowledge of moral science, and the principles of human action and duty, as would render them useful mothers; than to imitate, after years of labour, " the wing of a butterly, or the hue of a rose." It may be inquired, however, would I educate every woman for a governess? Yes, most assuredly. Every mother is, or at least ought to be, a teacher of the holiest and most interesting kind. Various avocations may prevent her from being a regular instructor ; but no earthly consideration should preclude her from being the occasional, nay, the frequent teacher of her children. In order that she may be able to act thus, to select proper assistants in the sacred work, to judge of their fidelity in the execution, and to preserve a spirit of energy and zeal ; it is absolutely necessary that she should, herself, possess the requisite qualifi- cations. I care not what may be her station, this is her duty. If her rank be humble, prudence, economy, and a laudable desire to advance her family, demand it. If her rank be exalted, many considerations render it stili more imperative- Too many, I fear, in afliuent circumstances, 'imagine, that because Ihey can attbrd ample remuneration to competent instructors, tbey arc rULPIT ELOQUENCE. Jgg fatal. In the higher ranks of hTe wWe v„, i """^ of the hun,ar.Tean a :T„Lmed'L''indT'""'P"™ conscious sunerioritv n„ . ,i •. V ""lulgence and vidual occupyinff it extended '"^p"""^"^^. «* tt»e mdi- industry and prosoeritv Ifnl r?^ morality, of possessing ample means f^^he rra CtL nf .^ ^""^.^^ r.nrhirTbti^^^^^^^ fore, not o" iy for^hefl^f I ""P°"»»'=« ''s ". there- also for the good of socrtv'Thrr' '''PP'"^^'' """ influential stations, skoTLltl aZuLr-'^''"'^ education* Tim Ph..;.*- , *^ ^^"^ and virtuous her rankJxem^^s he frl" .r'd f,"' "'f'' '"»«'"'' ""« highest hlrrof her se" a"ndlr'"''T""l"''"'^ ••"- fireleoffaahion >.|V« J. . / "" l" the splendid •nay awaken en 'LT'' ' '^"'i ""■* '''^••''^- ^<"- ■'"'■k 1 L_ : "" sicure the admiration of o>K". — j -nt.andh:-?^'i^p-r:^^^^^^^^^^^ 170 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. unfading honour, lies far away from the crowded haunts of amusement, in a peaceful and secluded apart- ment of her happy home. There, m the midst of her little ones, she represses the Cowardness of one. en- courages the difladence of another, and, "in familiar phrasf and adapted story," pours lessons of instruction Lo the minds of all. With a mother's gentleness, she draws forth their talents; with a mother's firmness, she regulates their tempers; with a mother's prudence, she prepares them to adorn their station upon earth ; and with a mother's piety, she leads them in the onward path towards heaven. The wide expanse of the globe presents no object more interesting, more exalted, or more useful, than such a Christian parent; nor is there Ty spot ^f nature, on which the eye of Omniscience rests with more complacency, than upon the retired and peaceful scene of her virtuous labours Such a mother becomes the centre of a system of usefulness, of whose extent, the imagination can form no adequate concep- tion; for there is not a single worthy principle which she instils, that may not descend as the ornament and solace of ten thousand generations. For my own part, I have always considered parents, who devoted then leisure hours to the instruction of their offspring, as the most estimable and the most useful members of society; and I never could read the story of the Spartan king, who was found by the Persian ambassadors play- ing in the midst of his children, without looking upon that circumstance as more honourable than all his victories. I do especially believe, that no plan could be devised for elevating the entire frame of society, half so efficacious as that which would produce a suc- cession of well-instructed, judicious, and virtuous Christian mothers. The laws of the statesman, and the lessons of the divine, would be but feeble mstru- ments of prevention and reformation, in cx>mpari8on with the hallowed, all-pervading agency of maternal wisdom, energy, and affection. Let it not be supposed however, that I am the advocate ot visionary schemes of education. It would neither be P/»«"^f '^ ""^. desirable, for every woman to become deeply leainea. but I would have every female substantially educated, PULPIT ELOQUENCE. jyj JunS'" ThU 1 21""" ^*'^- -^ her „pp„,.. Montgomery, Exhortation to Yonth t7^,„.te a Devotional Spirit your boson,3 that peLt wMch"^:" wo'rid LTnl'l!'" give nor take away? WouIH vn„ X. ^*^° neither .he purest and J^J^^Zlr^Zxl TuT "^ that richest of all blp^in^Q „ a- yy^^^ you have under .hern aU by .he'nobS coSau' « " WilH^ dor* •"' " P^P"""' "«»»« <■<• your dep™- ZTJl?."^' "^^^ "'»" t" seek him h.bi.„..r."a lives— with In^.i.-P'*'*"'« '" ""e events of your 'es-wHh all that ,s stupendous, and vast, and bea" 172 PULPIT ELOQUBSCB. tiful in the productions of his creative power and skill. Whatever excites you— whatever interests you— what- ever in the world of nature, or the world of man, strikes you as new and extraordinary— refer it all to God; discover in it some token of his providence, some proof of his goodness; convert it into some fresh occa- sion of praising and blessing his holy and venerable name. Do not regard the exercises of devotion as a bare duty, which have a merit in themselves, however they are performed; but recur to them as a privilege and a happiness, which ennobles and purifies your nature, and binds you by the holiest of ties to the greatest and best of all things. - , , i. i. When you consider what God is, and what he has done— when you cast your eyes over the broad field of creation, which he has replenished with so many curious and beautiful objects; or raise them to the brilliant canopy of heaven, where other worlds and sys- tems of worlds beam upon tbo wondering view—when day and night, and summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest— when the things nearest to you and most familiar to you, the very stn ^-re of your own bodily frame, and that principle of . .nscious life and intelli- gence which glows within you— all speak to you ot God, and call upon your awakened hearts to tremble and adore:— when to a Being thus vast— thus awful— you are permitted to approach in prayer,— when you are encouraged to address him by the endearing appel- lation of a Father in heaven; and, with all the confi- dence and ingenuousness of affectionate children, to tell him your wants and your fears, to implore his forgive- ness, and earnestly to besech him for a continuance ot his mercies:— you cannot, my young friends, it you have any feeling— any seriousness about you, regard the exercises of devotion as a task; but must rejoice in it, as an unspeakable privilege, to hold direct intercourse with that great and good Being— that unseen, but uni- versal Spirit, to whose presence all things m heaven and on earth bear witness, and in whom we all live ana move unci nave our uunig. i""c v.^-sv-^. - - the spirit of devotion: whenever any thing toucnes your hearts, or powerfully appeals to your moral teoi- I'ULPIT ELOQUENCE. j 73 fcf :p7i„*:„f i";^ir',rp"'- -f "■« occasion, in secret. And in vn^ff ^ • '!f/°"'''" '^h" '"^a'-eth confine 70ur7e"ves J^" s? 1^ addresses to God, do „oe -»ay be repeated^ech^nSf,^ -"^ "^ """^^ ''^ch rence either of thrhel« ? ^f "u'""?"' ""^ «»'""■■•- having reviewed the mercllf ' '"'"''' ""'• '^■«■• tion-after having coneCed? ^T ^V'""^'"^ «»■"«- voured to ascertafn the 1 /':,""'"«'""> ""d en, .a- oharacter-give 'ttertce i^r'^ weaknesses of yonr language which comes sn^'ntL T^^" f"^ ""'"'^ied those emotions of gratiE "d K^'i^ *? "" '">'• "> »« sion and trust, whi!h c „ot f^n ^ ^- '^' ■''' "' "'^"'''■ «;.^d .ourselves alone in Cpt^ce-'^T/Sg^^ p'e:'rhere2?,sj:;tinr ;° "f-'« «"^ known God onlv in i;. . °^- ^°" ^ave as yet felt his presence ont TTT' '' '^'''' ^^" ^-« loving-kindness and tfnder m.U T^^'f "°« ^^ ^^^ yet strangers to the f^r nfTS* 7°"^ ^^^^'s are as ^^ith a hol^, tr^ig^f ,,^^^!^"^^^^^ but swell, heaven and earth is vonTr.^ J*^^*^^^bomade ^^0 controls the cours^e of n^? ^^ther.-that He «ies of nations, is^otunminSfr' '°^ '"^'« *^« ^««ti- then, oh seize th s predouT^h[« 'n" "^' ^""- ^eize, fence! improve it,^wh n k 1^'^'^'".^'"*^^ "^ ^^'«- [t will never return La n ^r^^'^l *^'' ^^"^^^ «"«, been alienated from God 1 *^-? ^^''^'^ ^'^' «»^« l-^ted it-thouffh rlpn^n"; ^'"^* ^«« ^nce pol- ^-gth bind upt brS"::;; V^^^^^^ ™«^ «' Penence that warmth nnS A i ' ' 7'" "^^^^ "^^^^ «x. ^ence-th.t entire Indunh^r.- '^ '^^'^''-^^^^ confi- °f niercies, which betnf f *'"^ *'"«* ^» the Father niinds. ' '^ ^'^'^"S only to pure and innocent Taylor. .#J ^rv; IMAGE EVALUATION T^ST TARGET (MT-3) // 7 fe ^#/^ 1.0 I.I 1.25 "" ill 2 2 ^ Bi "III™ " lis lliio 1.8 U 11.6 i& P % /i t//^* Photographic Sciences Corpordtion 23 WiST MAIN STRUT WIISTIR, N. r. USIO (ri6) a7}-4S03 ? k^. t/j ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. Hannibal to his Soldiers. I KNOW not, soldiers, whether ycu' or your priso- ners'* be encompassed by fortune' with the stricter bonds' and necessities'. Two' seas' enclose you on the right' and left';— not a ship' to flee to for escaping'. Before' you is the Po', a river' broader' and more rapid' than the Rhone'; behind' you are the Alps', over which', even when your numbers were undiminished', you were hardly able to force a passaged— Here', then, soldiers, you must either conquer' or die', the very^ first^ hour' you meet' the enemy'. But the same fortune which has laid you under the necessit/ of fighting, has set before your eyes' those rewards of victory', than which' no' men are ever wont to wish for greater' from the immortal gods'. Should we, by our valour, reco- ver only Sicily' and Sardinia', which were ravished from our fathers', those would be no inconsiderable' prizes. Yet, what^ ar*} these? The wealth of Rome'> whatever riches she has heaped together in the spoils of nations', all these', with the masters' of them, will be yours. You have been long enough employed in driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusi- tania' and Celtiberia' ; you have hitherto met with no' reward worthy' the labours' and dangers' you have undergone. The time is now' come to reap the full' recompense ol your toilsome marches over so many mountains' and rivers', and through so many nations, all' of them in arms'. This' is the place, which fortune has appointed to be the limits' of your labours; it is here^ that you will finish' /our glorious waffure, and receive an ample' recompense' of your completed' ser- vice'. For I would not have you imagine, that victory * Relative emphasis. In his contempt for the Romans, he treat* them as if they were alrendy conquered. ANCIENT AND MODERV ORATORY. 175 ,oinan8,hetreftti Will be as difficult as the name of a Roman war is great and sounding;. It has often happened, that a despised' enemy has given^ a blood/ battle', and the most re - nowned^ kings^ and nations' have by a small' force been overthrown>. And if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name', what is there, wherein they may stand m competition with you^? For'-to say nothing ot your service m war for twenty years together, with so much valour and success'— from the very Pillars of Herculess from the ocean\ from the utmost bounds of the earthv, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Uaul, are you not come hither victorious'? And with whom are you now> to fight? With raw^ soldie j, an undlsclpllned^ army, beaten\ vanqui8hed\ besieged by the Gauls the very last summer^ an army unknown' to their leader, and unacquainted' with him. Or shall r who was-born\ I might' almost say- but certainly brought up', in the tent of my father, that most excellent general'; shall I', the conqueror of Spain' and Gaul', and not only of the Alpine' nations', but which is greater yet, of the Alps themselves'; shall p' compare myself with this half-year' captain'?— A captain'! befoinr.»o ,.f U:- 1.- U2 UHi 178 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOUY. 0U8 war against our brethreii? My Lords, these enor- mities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But, my Lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of morality; « for it is perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, " to use all the means, which God and n«iture have put into our hands." I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed; to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country. My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your attention; but I cannot repress my indignation— I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are called upon as members of this House, as men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity!— "That iGod and nature have put into our hands!" What ideas of God and nature, that noble Lord may entertain, I know not; but 1 know, that such detesta- ble principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature, to the massacres of the Indian scalp- ing-knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, murder- ina^»* ikou in nig nvour, I shaH 180 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT. Still gain one point— to make it apparent to all the world, that what was wanting in this case, was— not a criminal nor a prosecutor— but justica and adequate punishment. ,../.!.. *u To pass over the shameful irregularities ot his youth, what does his qusestorship, the first public employment he held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villanies? Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and be- trayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a pro- vince robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people violated. The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia— what did it produce but the ruin of those countries; in which houses, cities, and temples, were robbed by«him? What was his conduct in the prffitor- ship here at home? Let the plundered temples and public works— neglected, that he might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on— bear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge? Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. But his prsetor- Bhip in Sicily crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mis- chiefs done by him in that unhappy country, during the three years of his iniquitous administration, are such, that many years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be sufficient to restore things to the condition in which he found them: for it is notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original laws;— of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman Senate, upon their coming under the protection of the commonwealth;— nor of the natural and unaben- able rights of men. His nod has decided all causes in S-cily for these three years; and his decisions have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The .sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be com- puted. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as en-mies; Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures; the most atrocious criminals, for money, have been exempted ._ _ -1 ^ __!-! i_ . ^^A nf tn** moat from tUo ucSciveci puuisuiiicuvBi »tiu isj-.n •." ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. 181 unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished unheard. The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, opened to pirates and rav.igersj the soldiery and sailors, belonging to a prov- ince under the protection of the commonwealth, starved to death; whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The ancient monuments ot either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of heroes and princes, carried off; and the temples stripped of the images. Having, by his iniquitous sentences, tilled the prisons with the most industrious and deserv- ing of the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols; so that the exclamation, "1 am a citizen of Rome!" which has often, in the most distant regions, and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and more severe punishment upon them. I ask now, Verres, what you have to advance against this charge? Will you pretend to deny it? Will you pretend, that any thing false, that even any thing aggra- vated, IS alleged against you? Had any prince, or any state committed the same outrage against the privileges of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for declaring immediate war against them? What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Publius Gavins Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, wiio had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape? Th i unhappy man arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brought before the wicked prsBtor. With eyes darting furj^ and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought; accusing him, but without the ^ least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of H e - v-tuv iv i.^l\illJ nr. :i spy. in vuiii me Uuiiupuy WK ■ ANCIENT AND MODEUN ORATORY. % man cried out, «*I am a Roman citizen; I have served under Lucius Precius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence!" The blood-thirsty pr^tor, deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. Thus, Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly man- gled with scourging; whilst the only words he uttered amidst his cruel sufferings were, "I am a Roman citizen!" With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and from infamy. But of so little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution — for his execution upon the cross!— Oh liberty!— Oh sound, once delightful to every Roman ear! Oh Bacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred! — now trampled upon! But wjiat then? — Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, iu a Roman province, within sight of Itafy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the^ Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of all liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom and justice. Fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and unexampled insolence of Gains Verres to escape the due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and introduction of general anarchy and confusion. Invective a gains t Hastings. Had a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla— that man, who, with a savage heart, had still great lines of character; and who, with all his f^,;i,',;xi in wrnr. nfin sun. wiiii n uuiisrai::::; titijijsj : — fe rocity in war, naa biui, wiiis n uun ANCIENT AND MODERN OTATORT. 183 3 served lus, and prsBtor, ordered Thus, ily man- ( uttered Roman lelf from service (ras thus for his .ss!— Oh r Roman ipl once 1?— Is it ;overnor, pie, iu a scourge, id at last 1 citizen? n agony, lajesty of e justice wanton is riches, inkind at hat your ering the V^erres to pprehend rity, and 1. •ovince of the death jge heart, ith all his ItZZZ'SZ I served to his country the riches vehich it deri/ed fron^ benignant skies and a prolific soil—if this stranger, ignorant of all that had happened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene— of plains unclothed and brown— of vegetables burned up and extinguished — of villages depopulated, ani in ruins— of templfes un- roofed and perishing— of reservoirs broken down and dry, — he would naturally inquire, What war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country ?— what civil dissensions have hap- pened, thus to tear asunder and separate the happy societies that once posfsessed those villages ? — what dis- puted succession — what religious rage, has, with un- holy violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its duties? — what merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and sword ? — what severe visitation of Providence has dried up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth every vestige of verdure ? — Or, rather, what monsters have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour ? To such questions, what must be the answer ? No wars have ravaged these lands, and depopulated these villages — no civil discords have been felt — no disputed succes- sion— ;-no religious rage — no merciless enemy ^ — no affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged for the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation — no voracious and poisoning monsters — no, all this has been accomplished by the friendship, generosity, and kind- ness of the English nation. They have embraced us with their protecting arms, and, lo ! those are the fruits of their alliance. What, then I shall we be told, that, under such circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus goaded and spurred on to clamour and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the Heguras ? When we hear the description of the fever — paroxysm — delirium, into which despair has thrown the natives, when, on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, they tore n^orp widol^^open the lips ofthfir o^ping wounds, 184 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. to accelerate their dissolution ; and, while their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to Heaven ; breathing their last and fervent prayer, that the dry earth might not bs suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their country— Will it be said, that this was brought about by the incantations of these Begums, in their secluded Zenana ? or that they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair into the breasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no torture ? What VTiotive, then, could have such influence in their bosom? What motive? That which Nature, tlie common parent, plants in the bosom of man;' \d which, though it may be 1*88 active in the Indian than in the Englisli- mun, is still congenial with, and makes part of his being— That feeling which tells him, that man was never made to be the property of man; but that, when, through pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped, and resistance is a duty— That feeling which tells him, that all power is delegated for the good, not for the injury of the people ; and that, when it is con- verted from the original purpose, the compact is broken, and the right is to be resumed— That principle which tells him, that resistance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to himself and to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which he gave him, in the creation !— to that common God, who, where he gives the form of man, whatever may be the com- plexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man- That principle, which neither the rudeness of igno- rance can stifle, nor the enervation of refinement ex- tinguish !— That principle, which makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought to act— which, tending to preserve to the species thf originai designations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, and vindicates tl.e independent quality of his race. Sherida7h ANC'iKNT AND MODKK.V ORATOUT. 185 Cicero for Milo. My Lords, — That you may De able the more easily to determine upon that point before you, 1 shall beg the favour of an attentive hearing, while, in a few words, I lay open the whole affair.c—CIodius, being deternined, when created praetor, to harass his country with every species of oppression, and finding the comitia had been delayed so long the year before, that he could not hold this office many months, all on a sudden threw up his own year, and reserved himself ^ - the next ; not from any religious scruple, but that he might have, as he said himself, a full, entire year, for exercising his pi aetorship- -that is, for overturning the commonwealth. Being sensi le he must be controlled and cramped in the exercise of his prsetorian author" j under Milo, who, he plainly saw, would be chosen consul by the unanimous cor sent of the Roman people; he joined the candidates that opposed Milo—but.in such a man- ner, that he overruled them in everything, had the sole manage: \ent of the election, and, as he used often to boast, bore all the comitia upon his own shoulders. He assembled the tribes; he thrust himself into the • councils, and formed a new tribe of the most abandoned of the citizens. The more confusion and disturbance he made, the more Milo prevailed. When this wretch, who was bent upon all manner of wickedjiess, saw that so brave a man, and his most inveterate enemy, would certainly be consul— when he perceived this, not only by the discourses, but by the votes of the Roman people, he began to throw otf all disguise, and to de- clare openly that MMo must be killed. He often inti- mated this in the Senate, and declared it expressly be- fore the people ; insomuch, that y,'hen Favonius, that brave man, asked him what prospect he could have .of carrying on his furious designs, while Milo was alive he replied, that, in three or four days at most, he should be taken out of the way — which reply Favonius imme- diately communicated to Cato. In the mean time, as soon as Clodius knew — nor in- deed was there any difficulty to come at the intelli- gence—that Milo was obliged by the 18th of January to be at Lanuvium, where he was dictator, in order to 186 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. r^ ^'l II H 1 ^H^H & i^KIHb i?M Tiy^' nominate a Priest — a duty which the laws rendered necessary to be performed every year ; he went sud- denly from Rome the day before, in order, as it appears by the event, to waylay Milo in his own grounds; and this at a time when he was obliged to leave a tur;jul- tuous assembly, which he had summoned that very day, where his presence was necessary to carry on his mad designs — a thing he never would have done, if he had not been desirous to take the advantage of that particular time and place for perpetrating his villany. But Milo, after having stayed in the Senate that day till the house was broke up, went home, changed his clothes, waited a while, as usual, till his wife had got ready to attend him, and then set forward, about the time' that Clodius, if he had proposed to come back to Rome thAt day, might have returned. He meets Clo- dius, near his own estate, a little before sun-set, and is immediately attacked by a body of men, who throw their darts at him from an eminence, and kill his coach- man. Upon which, he threw off his cloak, leaped from his chariot, and defended himself with great bravery. In the meantime, Clodius's attendants, drawing their swords, some of them ran back to the chariot, in order to attack Milo in the rear ; whilst others, thi'king that he was already killed, fell upon his servants who were behind. These being resolute and faithful to their master, were, some of the n, slain ; whilst the rest, seeing a warm engagement near the chariot, being prevented from going to their master's assistance, hearing besides from Clodius himself that Milo was killed, and believing it to be a fact, acted upon this occasion —I mention it, not with a view to elude the accusation, but because it was the true state of the case — without the orders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their master, as every man would wish his own servants should act in the like cir- cumstances. This, my Lords, is a faithful account of the matter of fact: the person who lay in wait was himself over- CUiiiC, UirU iUSyC 5UWUU! .4 UJ iuiv;c, Vl ■ ".i.iix:i £»siV!tr----v ness chastised by true valour. I say nothin^; of the advantage which accrues to the state in general, to ANCIENT AND MODBRN ORATORY. 187 yourselves in particular, and to all good men : I am content to waive the argument I might draw from thence in favour of my client — whose destiny was so peculiar, that he could not secure his own safety, without securing yours and that of the republic at the same time. If he could not do it lawfully, there is no room for attempting his defence. But, if reason teaches the learned ; necessity, the barbarian ; common custom, all nations in general ; and even nature itself instructs the brutes to defend their bodies, limbs, and lives, when attacked, by all possible methods; you can- not pronounce this action criminal, without determin- ing, at the same time, that whoever falls into the hands of a highwayman, must of necessity perish either by the sword or your decisions. Had Milo been of this opinion, he would certainly have chosen to have fallen by the hand of Clodius— who had, more than once before this, made an attempt upon his life — rather than be executed by your order, because he had not tamely yielded himself a victim to his rage. But, if none of you are of this opinion, the proper question is, not whether Clodius was killed? for that we grant: but whether justly or unjustly? If it appear that Milo was the aggressor, we ask no favour ; but if Clo- dius, you will then acquit him of the crime that has been laid to his charge. Every circumstance, my Lords, concurs to prove, that it was for Milo's interest Clodius should live ; that, on the contrary, Milo's death was a most desi- rable event for answering the purposes of Clodius; that, on the one side, there was a most implacable hatred; on the other, not the least; that the one had been continually employing himself in acts of violence, the other, only in opposing them; that the life of Milo was threatened, and his death publicly foretold by Clodius, whereas nothing of that kind was ever heard from Milo; that the day fixed for Milo's journey was well known to his adversary, while Milo knew not when Clodius was to return; that Milo's journey was Recbssary, but that of Ulodius rather the contrary; that the one openly declared his intention of leaving Home that day, while the other concealed his intention rm 188 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. of returiiing; that Milo made no alteration in his measures, but that Clodius feigned an excuse for alter- ing his; that, if Milo had designed to waylay Clodius, he would have waited for him near the city till it was dark; but that Clodius, even if he had been under no apprehensions from Milo, ought to have been afraid of coming to town so iate at night. Let us now consider whether the place where the encounter happened, was most favourable to Milo or to Clodius. But can there, my Lords, be any room for doubt or deliberation upon that? It was near the estate of Clodius, where at least a thousand able-bodied men were employed in his mad schemes of building. Did Milo think he should have an advantage, by attacking him from an eminence? and did he, for this reason, pitdh upon that spot for the engagement? or was he not rather expected in that place by his adver- sary, who hoped the situation would favour his assault? The thing, my Lords, speaks for itself, which must be allowed to be of the greatest importance in determin- ing a question. Were the affair to be represented only by painting, instead of being expressed by words, it would even then clearly appear which was the traitor, and which was free from all mischievous delsigns. When the one was sitting in his chariot, muffled up in his cloak, and his wife along with him; which of these circumstances was not a very great incumbrance? — the dress, the chariot, or the companion ? How could he be worse equipped for an engagement, when he was wrapped up in a cloak, embarrassed with a chariot, and almost fettered bv his wife? Observe the other, now — in the first place, sallying out on a sudden from Ilia seat ; for what reason ? In the evening ; what urged him? Late; to what purpose, especially at that season? He calls at Pompey's seat; with what view? To see Pompeyr — He knew he was at Allium. To see his house? — He had been in it a thousand times. What, then, could be the reason of this loitering and shifting about? — He wanted to be upon the spot, when Milo Catuc Up. But if, my Lords, you are not yet convinced — though the thing shines out with 8ux:h strong and full evidence I ANCIENT AND MODlCUN OUATOKT. 189 I — that Milo returned to Rome with an innocent mind, unstained with guilt, undisturbed by fear, and free from the accusations of conscience; call to mind, I beseech you, by the immortal gods, the expedition with which he came back, his entrance into the forum, while the senate-house was in flames, the greatness of soul he discovered, the look he assumed, the speech he made on the occasion. He delivered himself up, not only to the people, but even to the senate; nor to the senate alone, but even to guards appointed for the pub- lic security ; nor merely to them, but even to the authority of him whom the senate had entrusted with the care of the whole republic ; to whom he would never have delivered him-self, if he had not been confi- dent of the goodness of his cause. What now remains, but to beseech and adju -e you, my Lords, to extend that compassion to a brave mc.i, which he disdains to implore; but which I, even against his consent, implore and earnestly entreat. Though you have not seen him shed - single tear, while all are weeping around him— though he has preserved the same steady countenance, the same firmness of voice and language; do not, on this account^ withhold it from him. On you — on you T call, ye heroes, who have lost so much blood in the service of your country ! To you, ye centurions, ye soldiers, I appeal in this hour of danger lo the best of men, and bravest of citizens! While you are looking on, while you stand here with arms in your hands, and guard this tribunal; shall virtue like this be expelled, exterminated, cast out with dishonour? By the immortal gods, 1 wish — Pardon me, oh my coun- try I for I fear what I shall say, out of a pious regard for Milo, may be deemed impiety against thee— that Clodius not only Jived, but were preetor, consul, dic- tator, rather than be witness to such a scene as this. Shall this man, then, who was born to save his coun- try, die any where but in his country? Shall he not, at least, die in the service .f his country? Will you retain the memorials of his ff.iUant aji!!L anr! iliin-s.- »-.;- body a grave in Italy? Wilfany person give his voice f^r banishing a man from this city, whom every oil/ 190 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. on earth would be proud to receive within its walls ? Happy the country that shall receive him! ungrateful this, if it shall banish him! wretched, if it should lose him ! But I must conclude : my tears will not allow me to proceed, and Milo forbids tears to be employed in his defence. You, my Lords, I beseech and adjure, that, in your decision, you would dare to act as you think. Trust me, your fortitude, your justice, your fidelity, will more especially be approved of by him, who, in his choice of judges, has raised to the bench the bravest, the wisest, and the best of men. Lord Chatham's Reply to Sir Robert WalpoU. Sir,— The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing, that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, Sir, assume the province of determining ; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improve- ment, and vice appears to prevail, when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his grey hairs should secure him from insult. Much more. Sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temp- tation; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth. Sir, is not my only crime; I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of fffisture. or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and'an adoption of the opinions and language of anotner man. ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT. 191 In the first sense, Sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted; and deserves only to be mentioned, that It may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language; and though, perhaps, I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very soLcitously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age, or modelled by experience. But, if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical beha- viour, imply, that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator, and a villain;— nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves,— nor shall any thing but age restrain my resentment; age, which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious, without punishment. But with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure t the heat that offended them, is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty IS invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villany, and whoever may par- take of his plunder. ^ Caius Marius to the Bomans, It is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a material difference between the behaviour of those who stand candidates for places of power and trust, before and after their obtaining theru. They solicit them in one majiner, and execute them in another. They set out with a great appearance of activity, humility, and moderation; and they (luickly fall into sloth, pride, and avarice. It is undouf^^'uiiv «^fi»a— —-** ^- Ji ^ - . - to the general satisfaction, the duty of a supreme com ' mander m troublesome times. To carry on, with 192 ANXIKNT A NO MODERN ORATORY. effect, an expensive war, and yet be frugal of the pub- lic money; to oblige those to serve, whom it moy be delicate to offend; to conduct, at the same time, a com- plicated variety of operations; to concert measures at home, answerable to the state of things abroad; and to gain every valuable end, in spite of opposition, from •the envious, the factious, and the disaffected — to do all this, my countrymen, is more diflacuU than is generally thought. But, besides the disadvantages which are common to me, with all others in eminent stations, my case is, in this respect, peculiarly hard— that, whereas a comman- der of Patrician rank, if he is guilty of a neglect or breach of duty, has his great connections, the antiquity of his family, the important services of his ancestors, and the 'multitudes he has by power, engaged in his interest, to screen him from condign punishment ; my whole safety depends upon myself; which renders it the more indispensably necessary for me to take care, that my conduct be clear and unexceptionable. Besides, I am well aware, ray countrymen, that the eye of the public is upon me; and that, though the impartial, who prefer the real advantage of the commonwealth to all other considerations, favour my pretensions, the Patri- cians want nothing so much as an occasion against me. It is, therefore, my fixed resolution, to use my best endeavours, that you may not be diMippointed in me; and that their indirect designs against me may be defeated. I have, from my youth, been familiar with toils and with dangers. I was faithful to your interest, my countrymen, when I served you for no reward but that of honour. It is not my design to betray you, now that you have conferred upon me a place of profit. You have committed to my conduct tiie war against Jugurtha. 'I'he Patricians are offended at this. But where would be the wisdom of giving such a command to one of their honourable body? A person of illus- trious birth, of ancient family, of innumerable statues, I..,* «r j^5^ fi.vrwp.rip.nfu'.! What service wouH his long line of dead ancestors, or his multitude of motionless statues, do his country in the day of bftttle? What ANCIKNT AND MODEHN ORATOEY. 193 could such a general do, but, in his tremdation «„^ e^ual? Thu t ''''''- -^ ^^'^^ ^« ^^« »«t himself equair ihus, your Patrician general would in fi,nf men, that I have myself known those who have hlL chosen consuls, begin then to read the Wstory of their own country, of which, till that time, they wJre ^^^^^^^^^^ ignorant-that is, they first obtained thfeSvm^^^^^^^ and then bethought themselves of the oimnZ^- ' necessary for the proper discha^e of ft ^""''^'"*^*'°« 1 submit to your judgment, Romans, on which Md« the advantage lies, when a comparison i made befwee' Patrician haughtiness, and Plebeian experience S very actions which they have only read T h^^* Z^ bramt man n, the nobles, man. SupposTit were t quired of the fathers of such PntrS! T>i® ' a"d Bestia, whether, if they hfd 'hT ^ni ''^?"" would desire sons of their ch^tLf f t^e? :t^ would they answer, but that they would wUh th" worthiest to be their sons? If tL P„.l:»- i, reason to despise me, let Jiem like;i^''d™pis: thd? ancestors, whose nobility was the fruit of tS virtue Do they envy the honours bestowed uDon L? if; their hav^g-'e^-a ;h;";.e^s;rof"'iu''xurr ' -^t; none can be more lavish than they are, ?n "i^ise „f I 194 AWCIKNT AM) MOl'KTlN OlUTOnr. tli«ir nncestors. And thoy imagino they ^^ono"*"; »;«";' selves, by colobrntlng their tbrefatluM-8; whereas, they dV. the very contrary: for. «« much a« tho.r ancestors were di»tingui»he(l for their virtues, m much are they diHgraced by their vices. The glory of «n«<^«toj8^«;;f^ a light, indeed, upon their posterity; but » «n^y ««f^« to show what the descendantn are. It alike exhibits to Dublic view their degeneracy and their worth. 1 own, 1 cannot boast of'the deeds of my forefathers; but i hope 1 may answer the eaviU of the Patriciuns. by standing up in defence of whut V'^^r^.^^ri nfT; Ob.%erve ni»w, my countrymen, the injustice of the Patricians. They arrogate to themselves l^^o"^"*'^.?" account of the exploits done by their forefathers; whilit they will not allow me the due praise for performing the very same sort of actions in my own person. He has ,m statues," they cry, "of his ami^. He can traco no venerable line of ancestors."- What, then? Is it matter of more praise to disgrace one s illustrious ancestors, than to become illustrious by one*s own good behaviour? What if I can show no statues ot my familvl I ean show the standards, the armour, and Z trappings, which I have myself taken trom the vanquislied.^ I can show the sears of those wounds which I have received by facing the enemies of my country. These are my statues. These are the hon- ours 1 boast of-not left me by inheritance, as theirs; but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valour; amidst clouds of dust, and seas of blood ;-seenc;s of actum where these effeminate Patricians, who endeavour by indirect means, to depreciate me m your esteem, ha e ndver dared to show their faces. ^outm. Dtmosth*Hes to the Athenian,, exciting them to prosecute the fVar against PhtUp. Whkn 1 compare, Athenians, the speeches of some amongst us wifli their acaons, I am at a loss to recon- 2 wliat I see with what I hear.^ Their prot^eBtations •rA full ot seal against the puOiic enemy ; uu*^ -^ rJ»l«ro" i,?con,U.en Jhat «U their p«,ress.on» become suspected. By confounding you with a va ANCIENT AND MODERN OBATOUr. I95 engaging ,o„ i„ ^oHen,Jn:':lZm/ZS:' "' ture; I remember it wpU «.,♦ i ^"^/"°^ a June- opportunities wTa;: ^otngl" 'nSrnlPbr' vaders. It will be well for na ;p ^'"^*"0" *» oe in- pur own defence, ^n^ou*?"^.;/ ZZ iZlt"" iTSn^rprorL^r:-«£l=^ us, have not been .o,t through igno7ancetrnf''f assume, at thia time, more than ordinary liberfv „<• s^>eech I conjure you to suffer patientlyTh<»e fll^ which have no other end but your own Lt^ V have too many reasons to be sensible Zw™' i. " have suffered by hearkening to sycophanTs 1 Vn" therefore, be plain in laying before vourt! X !. *"j past miscarriages, in ordi t^o ^^Z/yZt^^fe . yeal°L":ierdTht';ws "^^bik-sr • ''"^'' "''""^ fortress of Juno in Sct."^ n ''^inf 'I'l^ '2' • ^ October, we received this intelliffenee w . j' '° immediate supply of three cor" fS-f^rvren T war were ordered to sea; and so .ealous we werT?to Fcfernng the necessities of state to our vernaws ™r =ndt;%X"^Vb^i^<«-j-^^^^^^^^ ten galleys not half manned '"''"''• *"•* A rumour was spread, that Philio w»a .int tu . 196 ANClIiNT AND MODERN OTATORT. time to push and ^^ active, *henw y ^^^^ secure J-^-^Jf '^^j:,^,^;! "o much heat, been as your resolutions ^^^^n jvu ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^., warmly seconded ^y.^^^^^^^'/.^^ered, is now to you.- rlble to Phihp, as ^^''^^J\^^''l^^\i,^e reflections? «To what purpose, at ^^is jS"^ '" ^ ^^ leave, ^Vhat is don«'<^T''™en?sa":;noil\^e recalled Athenians, though past moments a.e no ^ past errors may be retn^ved f^fe Jlry of over- fresh provocation to w^ar? Let tbe memo y sights, by which you have ;« ^^^^ if th. you to be more ^^S\lant in ^^^^^^^^^^ J ^.^^ Olynthians are not instantly succourea, j ^ ^^j a- -♦= vmi become assistants to rniiip, a."" utmost 'efforts, you ^ej-r"; " , i^^ip himself, serve him more factually than he can p It is not, surely, necessary to ^^^Yo^/^^^^i^ti^ns, alone can be of no consequence H^^^^ .^^^^^ of themselves, the virtue ^^.^^^CerTday; as they do, we should not see t^^J^^"^^^^^^^^ and upon every occasion, with so little , ^^.^ PMlip be -^^^J^^^^:;^^^^^^^ fsupport your manner. Proceed, tnen, ^^^^^ ^^^^^^ deliberations wi h vigour^ 1 ^a ^ ^ ^^^ ^^^^ of advising wbat is best, you na J b ^^^j, rience to discern what is "f^.V ^y^ermine. What and opportunity to execu^tewhat^^^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ time so proper for f ction. wna .^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^aV Vs'UThi% cttraTto il treades, neglected? Has "«? rn /, ^^ ^^^^ ^j^^^ insulted you ^^ J^r^^^^^ ^^^ confederates, whom instant, straiten and invade your ^ ^t an you have ^^^^"^"^yXllssar-theusurperof pro- implacable enemy--a ^^^^^Jf,^' ^^^^^^^ stranger, vinces to which he has no title ^^^ PJ^^^^^^^^^ .^ ^e not? a barbarian, a t^^^^^^^^ ,,, different Observe, Ibeseecn you, m . ^ yj. ances- your conduct appears ^^om the practices ot^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ iora:— they were friends to .trutn ana^p^ ^^ ^^^_ and detested flattery »»^ ."^^'X^iters SOreece, for nimous consent, they continued wbite^^^^^^^^^^ ^ the space of forty-five years, without mterrup ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. 197 public fund, of no less than ten thousand talents, was ready for any emergency. They exercised over the tings of Macedon, that authority which is due to bar- barians; obtained, both by sea and I^, in their own persons, frequent and signal victories; and, by their noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an immortal memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of malice and detraction. It is to them we owe that great num- ber of pubho edifices, by which the city of Athens exceeds all rue rest of the world in beauty and mag- nificence. It is to them we owe so many stately tem- ples, so richly embellished, but, above all, adorned with the spoils of vanquished enemies.— But visit their own private habitations; visit the houses of Aristides, Mil- tiades, or any other of those patriots of antiquity-yoa will find nothing, not the least mark or ornament, to distinguish them from their neighbours. They took part m the government, not to enrich themselves, but the pubhc; they had no scheme or ambition, but tor the public; nor knew any interest, but the public, ^as^y a close and steady application to the general good of their country, by an exemplary piety towards the immortal gods, by a strict faith and religious hon- esty betwixt man and man, and a moderation always uniform and of a piece, they established that reputation, which remains to this day, and will last to utmost pos- terity. *^ Such, men of Athens! were your ancestors— so glorious m the eyes of the world; so bountiful and munificent to their country; so sparing, so modest, so selt-denying to themselves. What resemblance of these great men can we find in the present generation? At a time when your ancient competitors have left you a Clear stage-when the LacedaBmonians are disabled; the Ihebans employed in troubles of their own— when no other state whatever is in a condition to rival or molest you;— in short, when you are at full liberty— wnen you have the opportunity and the power to be- come once more the sole arbiters of Greece;— you per- mit. naHentlxr nrU^l -• .V . ', ^^ t^^* ■ f 7 yj --"VIC piuviuuos lu oe wresteci irom you : you lavish the public money in scandalous and obscure uses; you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace, li' i%'%imma^'9 198 iMOIENT AND MODERN OBATOUT. whom yoa preserved i.> time of war; and, to 9am up Til ^uyourseWes-by your mercenary court and ser- Se reaiEnation to the will and pleasure of des.gmng, Tnlld ous felrs-abet, encourage, and strengthen the most dangerous and formidable of your enemies. Yes, ZtS^l repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers ^ TOur own ruin. Lives there a man who has coufl- denoe enough to deny it? Let him arise, and ass.gn ff he can any other cause of the success am' prosperity of FumD-''BaC you reply, "what Athens may have S' in repitalion abroad, she ha» gained in Xi it hoL. W»s there ev^ . greater ap- ^Vr ctcx^r? ' cifr-stStttS SaterhruL repXed and beautifiedr-Away with K trte Shall I be paid with counters? An o d sauare new-vamped up! a fountairl an aqueduct! are gesTac^uirition'^ to Lg of ? Cast yo^J^™'"^! ™.„uti.nte under whose m nistry you boast these pre SoS mprovmtnts. Behold the despicable creature ratsed all at once, from dirt to opulence; from the lowest obscurity to the highest honours. Have not some of S upstarts built private houses and seats tvTng with Ae most sumptuous of our public palaces? YSrhave their fortunes and their power increased, but asAe commonwealth has been ruined and impov- ^iXr subver.,.;, .^ he peop;. P— e^^^^^^^ d1g„mi,:nTpr^fermers, wer'e dis^^d of by the voice Savour of the people: but the magistrate, now, has '^urpTthe rightV^he people, a»^ excerc.es a- arbitrarv authority over his ancient and natural loiu. ?ou m?serablepeople!~the meanwhile, without money I^r; frLt&om being the ruler, ^^^^^^^ »o.vnnt. from being the master, the dependant, happy that^e governors, into whose ^^^J?l^^;Z resigned your own power, are so good and so giaciou as to continue your poor allowance to see plays. ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORr. J99 JBelieve me, Athenians, if, recovering from this ethargy, you would assume the ancient freedom and spinfc of your fathers-if you would be your ow™ sol vrnfr nff • ^"^ •' 7° ^«™'«^nJ^''«. confiding no longer your affairs ,n foreign or mercenary hands~if yon Dlov L r'rr^'u '' ^'*^ ^^"'' «^» ^«f«n««J ^'^' nrX li ?^' ^^^ *^^ P"^''"' ^^^t y«» ^aste in un- profitable pleasures at liome-the world might once more behold you making a figure worthy of Athenians. --You would have us, then," you say. "doservicein our armies m our own persons; and, for so doing, you would have the pension, we receivein time of peacc'^ accepted as pay in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand wn^L"" 1 *• ^^'^^°»^»S' t^8 my plain meaning. I Zt T^^ u ^ ?*"^'"S '"'^' '^^^ "« person, great or should grudge to employ it for the public service. Are we in peace? the public is charged with your subsis! tfm! ; ? ""f '° ^^^' ""^ "°<^«^ a necessity, at this ime, to enter into war? let your gratitude oblige you to accept, as pay in defence of your benefactor, what you receive in peace, as mere bounty. Thus, without thi^or >f?^*'°"T-^'*^^"* ^^*^"°g «^ abolishing any thing, but pernicious n>velties, introduced for the encour- agement of sloth and idleness; by converting only, for the future, the same funds, for the use of thi servicea- Die, which are spent, at present, upon the unprofitable- you maybe well served in your armies, your troops reguarly paid, justice duly administered, the public revenues reformed and increased, and every member of the commonwealth rendered useful to his country S"! rrr -' ''"'>'• "'*"-' -^^^ This O men of Athens! is what my duty prompted me to represent to you upon this occasion.-May the gods inspire you to determine upon such measures as S of ^""'^ '""P'*^'"?' ^""^ the particular and general good of our country! [■>n •-'m'*'mmfmv*m 200 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOllT. Curran for Hamilton Rowan. This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of emancipating the Catholics of Ireland ; and that is charged as part of the libel. If they had waited .ano- ther year— if they had kept this prosecution impending for another year— how much would remain for a jury to decide upon, I should be at a loss to discovei. It seems as if Uie progress of public information was eating away the ground of the prosecution. Since the commencement of the prosecution, this part ot the hbel has unluckily received the sanction of the Legislature. In that interval, our Catholic brethren have obtained that admission, which it seems it was a libel to propose. In what way to account for this, I am really at a loss. Have any alarms been occasioned by the emancipation of oar Catholic brethren? Has the bigoted malignity of any individuals been crushed? or has the stability of the government, or that of the country, been weak- ened? or is one million of subjects stronger than four millions? Do you think that the beneEt they received, should be poisoned by the sting of vengeance? If you think so, you must say to them, "You have demanded emancipation, and you have got it : but we abhor your persons; we are outraged at your success; and we will stigmatize, by a criminal prosecution, the adviser of that relief which you have obtained from the voice ot your country." I ask you, do you think, as honest men, anxious for the public tranquillity, conscious that there are wounds not yet completely cicatrized, that you ought to speak this language, at his time, to men who are too much disposed to think, that in this very emancipation they have been saved from their own Parliament, by the humanity of their sovereign:' Ur do you wish to prepare them for the revocation ol these imrvrovident concessions? Do you think it wise or humane, at this moment, to insult them, by sticking up in a pillory the man who dared to stand forth ns their advocate? I put it to your oaths : do you think, that a blessing of that kin.i— that a victory obtained by justice i»ver Digoiry aau up|;icr=iuii — =:......i, Stigma cast upon it, by an ignominious sentence upon iti'tice upon ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOBT. 201 men bold and honest enough to propose that measure? -to propoBe the redeeming of religion from thTabusea frnl K r^' the reclaiming of three millions often from bondage, and giving liberty to aU who had a right to demand it ; eivinir I L^r in fil ? een«4iir*iH x^r^^Ac. e *u- ^ ^' ^ ®*7» ^n the so-much censured words of his paper, « Universal Emancipa- mak;s lirv .'" '^' 'P^"' "^ '^^ ^"t^«h law, whi^ makes Iberty commensurate with, and insenarablp from, British soil; which proclaims eUn to t^e stranger and sojourner, the moment he sets his foot on Sufsh earth, that the ground on which he treads is ho^and consecrated by the genius of Universal EmancStion No matter in what language his doom may have been whh freetHn' Tr" -^-^^-P^exionlncompa^ble with ireedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon hini;-no matter in what disastrSattle his liberty may have been cloven down;~no rnatter with what solemnities he may have been devotecrupon he altar of slavery : the first n.oment he toucii os T Z?.t ""-^ f P'^*"'"' '^'^ ^^'^' ^"^1 the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own chains, that burst from around hi™ ; and he sta* s redeemed, regenerated, and disenthral led. by the hrt sistiblegeniu.s of Universal Emancipation. ^ ' The Beginning of the First Philippic of Demosthenes, i^ecYTi^'T ^^Tu^'f' Athenians, on some new sub- ject of debate. I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had declared their opinions. ^K I ^ approved of what was proposed by them. I should .ave continued silent; if not, I shild tl^en have a ZTll '^''V7 ?^"^'--^«- B"^ -ce tl.ot, very points on which those speakers have oftentimes b en heard already, are at this'time to be consider" ' though I have arisen first, I presume I may exneof' adv"iU th^" ' ''^' '' '"'^y «" ^— 03crL7 fad tion''?n^"'/*^'^"'*"'' ^""^^^^^ wretched the situa- t»on of our affairs at present seems, it must not by any 6?! I 202 ANCIKNT AND MODERN ORATORY. ■I f means be thought desperate. What I am now going to advance, may possibly appear a paradox ; yet it is a certain truth, that our past misfortunes afford a cir- cumstance most favourable to our future hopes. And what is that?-even that our present difficulties are owing entirely to our total indolence, and utter aisre- card of our own interest. For were we thus situated, in spite of every effort which our duty demanded then indeed we might regard our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip hath only conquered your supineness and inactivity: the state he hath not con- quered. You cannot be said to be defeated: your force hath never been exerted. , ,. • u ,i,„* If there is a man in this assembly who thinks, that we musbfind a formidable enemy in Phihp; while he views, on one band, the numerous armies which sur- round him; and, on the other, the weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its dominions; I cannot deny thai he thinks justly. Yet, let him reflect on this; there was a time, Athenians, when we possessed Pydna, Potidaja, and Mathone, and all that country round; when many of the states now subjected to him, were free and independent, and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time weak in him- self, and without allies, had desponded of success against you, he would never have engaged in those enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor coulv; Have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you now behold him. But he knew well, that the stronges places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ?eady for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve naturally to those who are in the field; the possessions of the supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he over- turns whole nations. He either rules universally, a a conqueror, or governs as a protector. For mankimi naturally seek contederacy with such as they see resolved, and preparing not to bo wanting to them- ■^^ ,5*' ,..;ii «««r nf Ipnffth bo per- il you, my couiiii/i"t;i., -T.- ----- -'-. o',. suaded to entertain the like sentiments; it each o you be disposed to approve himself an useful citizen, to tue ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. 203 Utmost that hig station and abilities enable him; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take the field; m one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish those hopes which every single person enter- tains, that the active part of public business may lie upon others, and he remain at his ease: you may then, by the assistance of the gods, recall those oppor- tumtns which your supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of this man. But when, O my countrymen I will you begin to exert your vigour ? Do you wait till roused by some dire event?— till forced by some necessity? What, then, are we to think of our present condition? To free men, the disgrace attending on misconduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or, say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the public places,^ each inquiring of the other, « What new ad- vices?" Can any thing be more new, than that a man ot Macedon should conquer tlie Athenians, and give law to Greece? " Is Philip dead?" « No— but he is sick." Pray, what is it to you, whether Philip is sick or not? Supposing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your interest. Many, I know, delight in nothing more than in circulating all the rumours they hear, as articles of intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are concerting the destruc- tion of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an embassy to the king of Persia; others that he is forti- iy ig places in Illyria. Thus we all go about, framing our several tales. I do believe, indeed, Athenians, that he IS intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination with many such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to oppose him. But I cannot be persuaded, that he hath so taken his measures, th.it the weakest among us— for the weakest they are who spread such rumours— know what he is next to do. Let us disregard their tales. Let us only be persuaded or this, that he is our enemy: that we have lonj? heen subject to his insolence; tha't whatever we expected Vo have been done for us by others, hatU turned against I I n 204 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. ' ; r us ; that all the resource left us is in ourselves ; and that, if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, we shall be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded of these things; and then we shall come to a proper determination, and be no longer guided by rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what particular events are to happen. We may be well assured, that nothing good can happen, unless we give due attention to our aflFairs, and act as becomes Athenians. The First Oration of Cicero against Cataline. Cataline! how far nrt thou to abuse our forbearance? How long are we to be deluded by the mockery of thy madness ? Where art thou to stop, in this career of unbridled licentiousness ? Has the nightly guard at the Palatium nothing in it to alarm you ; the patroles throughout the city, nothing; the confusion of the people, nothing ; the assemblage of all true lovers of their country, nothing ; the guarded majesty of this assembly, nothing ; and all the eyes that, at this in- stant, are riveted upon youra — have they nothing to denounce, nor you to apprehend ? Does not your con- science inform you, that the sun shines upon your secrets ? and do you not discover a full knowledge of your conspiracy, revealed on Ihe countenance of every man around you? Your employment on the last night — your occupations on the preceding night — the place where you met — the persons who met — and the plot fabricated at the meeting :- -of these things, I ask not, who knows ; I ask, who, among you all, is ignorant? But, alas! for the times thus corrupted ; or, rather, for mankind, who thus corrupt the times 1 The senate knows all this! The consul sees all this! and yet the man who sits there — lives. Lives! ay— comes down to your sennate-house ; takes his seat, as Gounsellor for the commonwealth ; and, with a deliberate destiny in his eye, marks out our members, and selects them for slaughter ; while, for us, and for our country, it seems glory Hunlcieut, to escupe from his fury — to find an asylum from iiis sword. ANCIENT AND aoDEKN OBATOBY. 205 an ignominious Z^'^II'TIT?''' "^ '^-i'"""" '<> you. Cataline, in the ruin, nf' L "'^ overwhelmed What! did no tha »rea 'an CI-T "?''"'"'»»«<'n8. Scipio-aithoughatfhe till ■ '^'' P""'*' ^^blius fice Tiberius Gracchus for d" '""""^ "a'ion-sacri- constitution ? and shall we clothed """' *° """""fyo"' plenitude of oonsu Ur p^wer endtftr *'*•'"*"' ""« our nation, and oar naZ ? S^T ""' """ance of pat the Riman empire to th«"" T '"*=■• '''» *o the world, because such 1 1 T'"'''^ S^** '"y »'''S*e the sanction of so Iatr« n J ^""""^ '^""y? ^'th ftte of the Tnnova Ir So H m' r"""^ ^ "'«■•'"'« "-e the altar of the c^nttkulr hl^ l"''.'"""''**^ «' Ahala? There has-!!' th ^ '^ ""."""^ "'' Se^ilius been, a vindicatol^^S an Len":- '"^"' • '?" '"'^'y fepublic, that never M«l t ™ 5'"^ 'P'"' '""'is heavier vengeance o„ Tt ■ '""■";' 'P'''"''^'- ""d national foe.^ Agains v„„ p'?",- ""'""' *'"'» on a mediate co„demnaHo„ ^nkSfl'"%'"'^ ■'" ^"^ ''»- Not the grave «a„c on'of Jh 'seSl "nitl ^"".""g? the country_„ot ancient preceden s~n^ •' ™? "'" But u>e are wanting T J'™eaents--not living law. consuls themsdves.^"^ ^ " """^ 'o-d'y-WE, the han'S'^f 'XTon's'ulT^o"' ""' ^P"""" '>"»«■, -.lition palliate the 'puni,i?m'™.':^ cl' "p'^E"^" Sul!ii~:.Wr^^^^^^ similar power was deWn.,!) ,„ .? ^ f*" ^ ^'"0" «"'! L. Valerius. lpr„T 1- '° "i?.0"n«"l8, C Marius villus, and tirtrib?nl « V'' •"'"'''' "■« P™«or Ser- their country nrotn^n,^ Saturninus. had forfeited to twenty day7an7„iZ ,, ?,'""^'? ''^^^ »■"• "O". axes, Ld ^ur autht ies n "f "'" ^^"^ "^ «"■• sleep,, sheathed in the Jid ^llf"P-PP>"t<^ decree a moment after its nrom,?"^.^.!''"*™'-^ '"'=•='?«._ ''hich, living man Vm. rir^'v "'°''",^,':' ^^«s not to find you a .■•"«Vo.ioro?°juiu:T^t^re'^it^^^^^^ f! 206 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. '">! triumph of insolence. Mercy, Conscript Fathers, is my dearest delight, as the vindication of the constitu- tion is my best ambition ; but I now stand self-con- demned of guilt in mercy, and I own it as a treachery against the state. Conscript Fathers, a camp is pitched against the Roman republic, within Italy, on the very borders of Etruria. Every day adds to the number of the enemy. The leader of those enemies, the commander of that encampment, walks within the walls of Rome • takes his seat in this senate, the heart of Rome; and, with venomous mischief, rankles in the inmost vitals of the commonwealth. Cataline, should I, on the instant, order my lictors to seize and drag you to the stake ; some men might, even then, blame me for having pro- crastinatfed punishment: but no man could criminate me for a faithful execution of the laws. They shall be executed. But I will neither act, nor will I suffer, without full and sufficient reason. Trust me, they shall be executed, and then, even then, when there shall not be found a man so flagitious, so much a Ca- taline, as to say, you were not ripe for execution. You shall live, as long as there is one who has the forehead to say you ought to live ; and you shall live, as you live now, under our broad and wakeful eye, and the sword of justice shall keep waving round your head. Without the possibility of hearing, or of seeing, you shall be seen^ and heard, and understood. What is it now you are to expect, if night cannot hide you, nor your lurking associates; if the very walls of your own houses resound with the secret, and proclaim it to the world ; if the sun shines, and the winds blow upon it ? Take my advice : adopt some other plan, wait a more favourable opportunity for set- ting the city in flames, and putting its inhabitants to the sword. Yet, to convince you, that you are beset on every side, I shall enter, for a little, into the detail of your desperations, and my discoveries, Do you not remember, or is it possible you can for- get my declaration on the 2 1st October last, in the beuuie, ibat Cuius Mauiius, your iife-gufirdB-man, ana confidential bravo, would, on a certain day, ^ake up ANCIEKT AND MODERN ORATORr. 207 St^"*^ *^"\^«y ^«"1^ be before the 25th ? Was I the massacre' of t^P •''"''' /^"* ^"" ^«^ <^«°«P'>ed whioh tJ/ " ™"'* ?"" ^« ««"tent with the heads which the runaways had left vou "> Whn* f „ ♦u n ["-.'"''-•"own Jnfidence oU^rpri Jg'"^ en.fe ?" the mght, on the Ist of Novembe,-, ,li/ To „o, jnrt on ."hVrii; "' 'r ^r •."'''' ^™ "<" f-l me in , at h on tne walls?— Your head cannot contrive vonr h^.ll nave notice J I measure the length and brparltli J J»r treasons, and I sound ,he gloomiest depth of yout vinTeTOu°*,h!?f r.!^*" •''■'""'' ""' '''^'' '"ffi<"'^"t 'o eon- ,r^., " , ' ^*^^' "" t"«t same n ffht von ani\ we^°n°habi't'i^7i' f^^' V""'^ "''^ "-^? ^hat city do ^%f " ve,"fvi« "^ '''■^' "«""■»' •-'' yo- &t w .1, .L u^, "'""""' senator, and citiien : while I Z, Z rd-rf„ i-i-^ ^^^ ^r^^'^; ^X't Wp''- '""^ ''"«' '» ''"ve been cut IZ M 208 ANGieNT AND MODERN ORATORY. m ■' In the house of Lecca, you were, on that night. Then and there did you divide Italy into military sta- tions ; did you appoint commanders of those stations ; did you specify those whom you were to take along with you, and those whom you were to leave behind j did you mark out the limit of the intended conflagra- tion ; did you "epeat your resolution of shortly leaving Rome, only putting it off for a little, as you said, until you could have the head of the consul. Two knights — Roman knights — promised to deliver that head to you before sunrise the next morning; but scarcely was this Stygian council dissolved, when the consul was acquainr.jd with the result of the whole. I doubled the guards of my house ; and, after announcing to a circle of the first men in the state — who were with me at the thne — the very minute when these assassins would come to pay me their respects, that same minute they arrived, asked for entrance, and were denied it. Proceed, Cataline, in your honourable career. Go where your destiny and your desire are driving you. Evacuate the city for a season. The gates stand open. Begone! Whftt a shame that the Manlian army should look out so long for their general ! Take all your loving friends along with you; or, if that be a vain hope, take, at least, as many as you can, and cleanse the city for some short time. Let the walls of Rome be the mediators between thee and me ; for, at present, you are much too near me. I will not suffer you. I will not longer undergo you. Lucius Cataline, away ! Begin, as soon as you are able, this shameful and unnatural war. Begin it, on your part, under the shade of every dreadful omen ; on mine, with the sure and certain hope of safety to my country, and glory to myself: and, when this you have done, then do Thou, wl )se altar was first founded by the founder of our state — Thou, the establisher of this city, pour out thy vengeance upon this man, and all his adherents. Save us from his fury ; our public altars, our aaced temples, our houses, and household gods; our liberties — our lives Pursue, tutelar god. pursue them — these foes to the gods and goodness — these plunderers of Italy — these assassins of Rome. ANCr^NT AND MODERN ORATORY. 209 An Extract from Mr. Brougham's Speech on Megro Slavery. I TBUST that at length the time is come, when Parlia- and fruitless oX: "^eH t" 'S Tf SfJIaT'^nS standir.^«,..„.i^' , , "PP*"' raade to the under- rdeetsft h v»1 ""'' ""f, ^^""^"^« '« «>« ="■»« «hat such a cki„r ^'" y?" 'f" ""^ "f l""' *'■"* sanction sucn a claim r There is a law above all the enactmenta sanfeTairttr:"'' T" "?™"Sl.out the ro"ht eenhirof Vr ' '""^ "' '* ^"^ ''«'''»'■« '!«' daring genius of Colum.jus pierced the ni»ht of a»e<, «nf r„", i° *'"" ""'■'^ ""' '»"«» of power wea°Uh and Almighty, whX Xo Id Jve^narr'^'h °^ '"" and ,-f« vnl • ^' that infernal traffic is now destroyed cal f J f' P"* '^ ^^^*^^ 'ike other pirates. How came th.s change to pass? Not, a.sur.LZ T^Ji-7 ZoL'^T^J^'' ^^^•- ^"' '^^ country ~it'h^ awoke; the indignation of the people was kindled ."i • ^ 210 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. descended in thunder, and smote the traffic, and scat- tered its guilty profits to the, winds. Now, then, let the planters beware— let their assemblies beware — let the government at home beware — h^t the Parliament be- ware! The same country is once raol-e awake— awake to the condition of Negro slavery; the same indigna- tion kindles in the bosom of the same people; the same cloud is gathering that annihilated the slave-trade; nnd if it shall descend again, they on whom its crash may fall, will not be destroyed before I have warned them: but I pray that their destruction may turn away from us the more terrible judgments of God. Peroration to Sheridan's Invective against Warren Hastings. Before I come to the last magnificent paragraph, let me call the attention of those who, possibly, think themselves capable of judging of the dignity and character of justice in this country; — let me call the attention of those who, arrogantly perhaps, presume that they understand what the features, what the duties of justice are here and in India; — let them learn a lesson from this great statesman, this enlarged, this liberal philosopher:—" I hope I shall not depart from the simplicity of official language, in saying, that the Majesty of Justice ought to be approached with so- licitation, not descend to provoke or invite it, much less to debase itself by the suggestion of wrongs, and the promise of redress, with the denunciation of pun- ishment before trial, and even before accusation." This is the exhortation which Mr. Hastings makes to his Counsel. This is the character which he gives of British justice. But i will ask your Lordships, do you approve this representation? Do you feel, that this is the true i;T«age of Justice ? Is this the character of British Justice? Are these her features? Is this her coun- tenance? Is this her gait or her mien? No; I think even now I hear you calling upon me to turn from this vile libel, this base caricature, this Indian pagod, formed by the hand of guilty and knavish tyranny, to ANCIENT AISD MODERN ORATORY. 2J1 dupe the heart of ignorance,— to turn from this de- formpri iri^i / Vi -o""'""^,^'— t" lurn irom tins de ^^^. indeed t' " 'J"i ^""^'"'y °^ *^"«^J«« ^^^re. soveriLn ha;r? fl^ ^/'''"' ^"^•°^' enthroned by the coTJTv •''u ^''««d«™»--^wful without severity- ourre«Hp"^' '"''''""' Pnde-vi^ilant and active, wfth- out restlessness or suspicion-searching and inquisi- ive, without meanness or debasement-not arroTntTy scorning to stoop to the voice of afflicted inno?ence^ s^Vlir at Itl'S^t"'"^^ ^^- ^-^^"^ ^^ ^^^ th//i^^^*^'- "'J^'*^'' ^y *^^ ^"'-"i of that Justice, your m?n7.7":^'"^ ^'"P^^ ^^"^ ^^''^^^ips, to give ^. Took w *^'' P^* ^"'^"^««5 that I exhort you ;' autb'bW r ™"t *^ ^"'^^ ^^^^J^ ™^y be denied pL^" •/ ^T^^' ^"* *° *^« Plai" facts,-to weigh knowZ '' 'u' '''''T^'y ^'"^«"r own'minds; we know the result must be inevitable. Let the truth IZ't '"A-"' T'' '' ^^^"^^- It i« this-I conlu e of the nl?^'; \^T "^" ^^"°"^' f«r the honour pL! .°, r"' ^'"'*^^ ^'^"^"^ «f human nature, now mons of f' r.' ""''V^* ^^ this duty that the CoZ Tnds. ^ ' '^''^'''^ '^'°"Sh us, claim at your HmTlvT''^'^.i* ^u^" *^ ^^ ^^ ^""^'y thing that calls sub- hrae ly upon the. heart of man-by the Maie^ty of that Justice which this bold man has fibeM-^yVe wide W of your own tribunal-by the sacred pledge by which you swear in the solemn hour of decision • knowing that that decision will then bring you the' highest reward that ever blessed the heart Vman- the consciousness of having done the greatest act of mercy for the world, that the earth ha! ever yet re- ee^J^ed from any hand but Heaven.-My Lords,^I Lve Panegync on the Eloquence of Sheridan. ^hhZZt ^"^,!"'-P"^^d the thousandsiwho hung Tnt l?ni "'^ h.s accents, by such an array of tal ents, such an exhibition of capacity, such a dLlav of powers, ns is iinr.n..„ii.ji„j .-.. A ^' , „ "ispiay oi disnln,r'/r«r "i""""^"^" ^" "10 annais oi oratory; a display that reflected the highest honour on himseJf- 212 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. V. lustre upon letters — renown upon Parliament — glory upon the country. Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or modern times ; whatever the acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, the solidity of the judgment-seat, and the sacred morality of the pulpit, have hitherto furnished ; nothing has equalled what we have this day heard. No holy seer of religion, no statesman, no orator, no man of any literary description whatever, has come up, in the one instance, to the pure sentiments of morality; or, in the other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagina- tion, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and elegance of diction, strength and copiousness of style, pathos and sublimity of conception, to which we, this day, listened with ardour and admiration. From poetry up to eloquence, there is not a species of com- position, of which a complete and perfect specimen might not, from that single speech, be culled and col- lected. Burke. Dr. McCrie on promoting Education in Greece^ 1825. I REGARD the society, which we are met to form, as a scion sprung from the interest which ihe public has taken in that cause, and which is now to be grafted on the native stock of British female benevolence. That interest is no burst of transient enthusiasm. It is deeply seated in the public mind. It is to this feeling, more than to the balancing of political interests, or to the jealousy with which nations may view the attempts of a rival already become too powerful, that I trust for the averting of the danger (dreaded by some more politically wise than I pretend to be) to the nascent liberties of modern Greece, from the ambitious projects of a certain Northern power. True it is. Sir, that that power dismembered the ancient Kingdom of Poland, and, retaining the body to itself, threw the mangled limbs to the Prussian eagle and Austrain vul- ture. It delivered Norway into the hands of a repub- lican reiiugaue, uiiu uiOre xatcij i4- atnr\A rrt>inr»inor dpliorht over the murdered liberties of Naples and of Spam. ■ ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. 213 Ilent *Rnf 1 IK^'^' ""^ '^' ^"^"^« «^ f'-^dom were silent. But let it venture to plant its foul paw on the sacred breast of "Greece, and Liberty, who watches over that country for which she has no^ suffered the pangs of travail a second time, will utter a sS more feTrwh^ ^^'" ''f ''^'''^ '^' g^^^ when Kosciusko man and oV'r''^r*'^ ^^^" ^^« ^''^^'^ «^ «very free man and of every free woman, will drive him appalled "^to his native fens. Despair not the cause of Greece Despondency as to the issue of the presLt struS would paralyze every exertion for prom^oting LS r! estaWinr'f • IV''' P^^P^^^' '' would be si S, estabhsh schools which must be swept away on the successful return of the barbarous invader, or whlh would be an object of deadly jealousy to a despltical usurper, whose dread of knowledge is in proportion to his hatred of liberty? But I havLo fearS L head h^ a dlbt^^^^^^^^^^^ • '"''V^ '^^' ^"^j^^*> «^ to talk of it wm be free. And, feir, she is free. The contest is already decided-the battle is o'er-the confused noise of the warrior is hushed-the daughters of Greece are fon" fri Vr'or' -'^ I'^^'f-^-'^ garmentsTthJr sons and brothers in the vale of Tempe. and at the tTsT/B it^f '">; ^"' *'^^ -^" weLm:Thei! st wTth thP.^ '^ Z^"" '"™^ *^ ^^'^'^y tb^i^ sympathy with them, and to assist them in preparing the old wastes-the desolation of many gene?ations. ^ Against the union of Professorships with Cure of Souls. loJlIZi^^ 'T* *^'"^ ^" ^^'' exception of the theo- ogcal chairs, that you virtually give up thereby all that strength and massiveness which wont in other days to characterise the lore of theology, and hat!too that ti ? *^ ^".*^^ ^*^^' «^^^°«^«- Jt i« not thus /e of ot^L^S ^^f} r^^ ^" *'^ P"^^^ ^°<^ better »ge 01 our old Jbinarlish ]itera*nro «rk«r. *i, .•_!_._.. intellects of the »«rid did therrprofountot'^Li;^,;;^ 214 ANClK^r AND MODKHN ORATORY. the theme, and ielt it to be at oner the noblest and the most arduoua that the intellect of man could grapple with. And this sense, of its importance was not confin- ed toproiessional men— to those great masters in Israel, who framed the Polyglots, and the Harmonies, and the huge Prolegomina, luid the mighty Thesauruses, both of devotional and practical divinity, which the stout and the sturdy authorship of that period, when learn- ing was indeed a labour, has bequeathed to succeeding generations. In Lord Bacon's treatise on the advance- ment of human learning, tlieology is treated as the Queen of the sciences, and all the others are but as the attendants and the tributaries at her feet. But the greatest practical homage of this sort ever rendered to theology, was by Sir Isaac Newton, who did not simul- taneously partition his mighty intellect between the intense studies of nature and of the Bible, but who suc- cessively turned it iVom the study of the works of God to the study t)f his Word. It is true that he felt a kindredness between bis old and IiIh new contempla- tions, but lie found them both to be alike arduous. It was a transference that he made from the one to the other, when, after having seen further than all who went before aim, into the God-like harmonies of the world, he was tempted to search, and at length did behold, the traces of a wisdom no less marvellous in the God-like harmonies of the Word; when, after having looked, and with steadfastness, for years on the mazy face of heaven, and evolved therefrom the magnificent cycles of astronomy, he then turned him to Scripture, and found in the midst of now unravelled obscurities, thiit its cycles of prophecy were equally magnificent ; and, whether he cast his regard on the Book of Reve- lation, or on the Book of Daniel, who, placed on the eminence of a sublime antiquity, looked through the vista of many descending ages, and eyed from afar the structure and society of modern Europe: he whose capacious mind had so long been conversant with the orbits and the periods of the natural economy, could not Ut McKnowieagexno luoisicpo ui mc zzx-^x: j.-i - -.----- — - nity in the still higher orbits of that spiritual economy, which is unfolded in the Bible. And while we cannot ANCIKNT AND MOVKHN ORATOJiY. 215 "thcr dovs L N^! *'"' "'" ""'" »f might of 80 profoundly at its shrine rbu cSofTh"'^"''''''' tian worth so soften, "k-iV-^"."''^?^"^'' "f W' Chris- his gonius. Never wa^t"' "•™:'-"i«? 'he majesty of of man so rare and bl,.w "'^f^'^ '" ""^ '='"'"'«'«■• sunds forth" rixx ::cfe:7fTft'''r \^-"''» ment in science shnnW « ^*u , ^°"'^^* achieve- Chalmers, On Slavery. i^i z:^^o^::^^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^-e now By parliamentary enacS^^^ slavery may be lessened. nientandfeelingsof Intls aidL'^"^' '"".u^"' j"^«- a certain defrr^t nf ^Iv .-' ''J' ^a^'ous other means. say in L S i '"^^i^^a*^"" ^^1/ be secured. But I Zi:^o'Zo^^^^^^^^ ''}^' you can accl' the nature oTsLXS^^^^ you have sum rinduc^d'nnn .,^^^^^^^'7 improvement debasing, less cruel JpLt'^" ^"^' "^^ ™"^*^ '* less character. The black In ''*!;m?'V^' *^ '*« «««««*»«! white man. And th„r '' ' • " *'^" '^^'^^'^'^ ^'f the implies in i fhL\ * ''"'' circumstance, not only 8ourc« «f «..-.!-__,'_ _ . ". '"-^ rruittui and neceaacrv barrows' up" thHouI Tfif"'-"^ thought of whi^ch superintendence of «n ^ '^^ '""^'''^'^n of which no I intendence of any government can either prevent 21« ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY. or control. Mitigate and keep down the evil as much as you can, still it is there in all its native viru- lence, and still it will do its malignant work in spite of you. The improvements you have made are merely superficial. You have not reached the seat and vital spring of the mischief. Ycu have only concealed in some measure, and for a time, its inherent enormity. Its essence remains unchanged and untouched, and is ready to unfold itself whenever a convenient season arrives, notwithstanding all your precaution, and all your vigilance, in those manifold acts of injustice and inhumanity, which are its genuine and its invariable fruits. You may white-wash the sepulchre,— you may put upon it every adornment that fancy can suggest,— you may cover it over with all the flowers and ever- greens fiiat tlh garden or the fields can furnish, so that it will appear beautiful outwardly unto men. But it is a sepulchre still,— full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. Disguise slavery as you will,— put into the cup all the pleasing and palatable ingredients which you can discover in the wide range of nature and of art,— still it is a bitter— bicter— bitter draught, from which the understanding and the heart of every man, in whom nature works unsophisticated and unbiassed, recoils with unutterable aversion and abhorrence. Why, Sir, slavery is the very Upas tree of the moral world, beneath whose pestiferous shade all intellect languishes, and all virtue dies. And if you would get quit of the evil, you must go more thoroughly and effectually to work than you can ever do by any or by all of those palliatives which are included under the term «• mitigation." The foul sepulchre must be taken away. The cup of oppression must be dashed to pieces on the ground. The pestiferous tree must be cut down and eradicated; it must be, root and branch of it, cast into the consuming fire, and its ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven. It is thus that you must deal with slavery. You must annihilate it !— annihilate it now I— and annihilate it for everl It does appear to me that we have the amplest secu- rity for thaV measure, (immediate emancipation,) how 80on soever it may be carried, being as bloodless and iNClKNT AND MODKRN OKATOBT. 217 peaceable as our hearts could desire T (,„ , no, not the shadow of it that ?nv ^f f,"""^ "o tar.- chiefs will ensue from t te courts I-"*'*'''' "■«• a.e pressing on the Wislatu . r'"''""'"''"« """ ""> deem them all chimpn!!) , " "-^ <=°"8«ence, I purpose of deteirin" us 1 • ^- ' •"? '='''*'^y f«'- *be simple but imper t^e ,-,.f r 'Tu"^ °" ">at act of British PariraS'[o%Cfor:' "''"' "^ ■="" "P™ ">« insur" c'iJ„""an'd"bL":h:f f:';'i:-T ""^ "^"'»-' <>f indebted to fancy than i„f. "^'"S''/'"' »>■« «"• more then I say, be "t « T I ",'',!" ^ '""'^ "''""-n you, a heathe/'book bui oprv.T"' ,'"" T"™' ""'<'« f™n, fi«0»ftWr™«i"g, heaUhful sa1uta.Telc. '""""' ""!' '" P""' e«ne, i'-flnitely rather^han i r;"'" '"' """ '"»■"- whose path is never crosHd !^^ 'T" P«''""ence, disturbed, who." nm-re^ ; ' '" "'"""^ '' ""'er "veeping^,„st",™r?g^Z:er:hirwT^ ''^ °''^ ^ullyand sullenly thro.HrltV; ^^'"^'^ ^^"'^8 peace- t'^« Ian(i, breaS/nr£ • ^''"^^^ «nd breadth of ^^«tacin^ all Lm.{ ? r' f «^^"ting all that is .trom^ )^hich.from day to Tv an 1 ^ ""^ ''"^""" ''^^-"nd ' intoleranf ...,1 7„: .. '"^' ""^^ ^'^^^ y«ar to year. wUh » . ■""■" ^"'^^■! "Iinnoio iniliirrriitir r.,....lJ''. ' . Hand th minaDiv inaiigiuty, sends its tl e eve "d Ks tens of thousands of lu.n CI VllWn no. 1 .... . .. j' lOH- yuwning and ncver-.satislied loss victims into [t'RVO. K 218 ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT. .Tit..' -'■«■< !. On the Qualifications of Professors of Divinity. The circumstances attending the P^bJ^^f ^" jj, ^^ pamphlet were shortly as follows:- As far back as [wentv years ago, I was ambitious enough to aspire to be suc^cessor of Professor Playfair, in the mathematuMil cha'rT?he University of Edinburgh During the discission which took place relative to the person who mghTe appointed his successor, there appeared a let- Som Professor Playfair to the Magistrates of Kdin- burgh on the subject, in which he stated it as his con- vktfon, that no person could be found competent to ZchTrge the duties of the mathematical cLair among trSgymen of the Church of Scotland. I was at that ti4e^ Sir. niore devoted to mathematics than to hfl rature cf my profession ; and feeling grieved Ind i d gtnt at whit'l conceived an undue reflection on the abilities and education of our clergy, I came ?orward with that pamphlet to rescue them trom wha I diemed an unmerited reproach, by maintaming that a devoted and exclusive attention to the study o ma- fhema^cs was not dissonant to the proper habit of a ^^^1^^ Alas! Sir, so I thought m ™y ignorance and pride. I have now no reserve in saying that the sentiment was wroP,s and that, in the utterance of it, I penned what was most outrageously wrong. Strange- W bonded that I was ! What, Sir, is the object ot iS^tatical science ? Magnitude ^-^^^J^^^^l «f mn' ' 'Till the Alps lT/r''f "'"' Wown, Wftl, „ .i"^ replied to that voicp nf ^'1^ «.e sch,.eeih:i.:.f ^kT^r'*'''-- Made m.rth of h.s olari^n'j b" s^ " "'™«'' P^"'. Up a,,ds. .he Righi sno.s '' Moved onwards in !^- , '*"™' ">". The, caCt;;; C™'^,'-- «"i-idst"hrAl^!??i'l-w- The amidst „.„ ^ 'lordamun Alp-doraa: « arm is ins. strong. 220 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The sun was reddening the clouds of morn, When they enter'd the rock-defile, And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn Their bugles rung the while. But on the misty height, AVhere the mountain-people stood, Ther'^ yas stillness, as of night, "V^ iuu storms at distance brood. There was stillness, as of deep dead night, And a pause— but not of fear, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear. On wound those columns bright, Between the lake and wood, But they look'd not to the misty height, Wh-'re the mountain-people stood. The pass was fill'd with their serried power. All helra'd and mail-arrayed, And their steps had sounds like a thunder shower. In the rustling forest-shade. There were prince and crested knight, Hemm'd in by cliff and flood, When a shout arose from the misty height Where the mountain-people stood. And the mighty rocks came bounding down, Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown— Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong 1 They came like lanwine hurl'd From Alp to Alp in play, When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away. The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain side. And the Switzers rush'd from high, With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride Of the Austrian chivalry. Like hunters of the deer, rm'd the narrow dell, 3 They And first in the shock. Was the arm of William . ■• -w^ •• til 'Un S Bpuar, Tell. I^f VERSE. There was tumult in the crowded .traV And a cry of wild dismar ^ ''''^*' And many a warrior met hil'fate From a peasant's hand that day' And the empire's banner then ^?°^^ts place of 'vovino-fVpr Went down bpfnr« ♦! I ^^ '^^^' uuwn oetore the shepherd-mpn The men of the Forest Sea ' Ihe field-but not of sheaves— 'w£rHei?s:rtSt''oT^'^-^' And the leader of the war With ; r^ "nhelm'd was seen, F-n..he:K"irrfl^',';---' ^ " ■ aemam. The Siege of Conslanlimp/e. J e ^^^^t!i:i:z::vry-7''' *-e .a. Glean, fai„,1 anrtTTJ." •'"'.P'"^'''' morn, As if vounfT H«r.^ -'IV" "'^'^-^ ^"f or war. 221 I 222 PROMISCUODS SELECTIONS With fears and watchings, to their homes retire; Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds; the winds in sighs expire, And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeams fire. The city sleeps!— ay! on the combat's eve, And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered well, And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, Chain'd between life and death! Such rest be thine, For conflicts wait thee still! Yet who can tell In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine Full on thy spirit's dream! Sleep, weary Constantine^ Doth the blast rise? the clouded east is red. As if a 8?torm were gathering; and I hear What seems ' 'se heavy rain-drops, or the tread. The soft anu smother'd step of those that fear Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark! yet more near It comes, a many toned and r. 'ngled sound; A rushing, as of winds, where boughs are sear, A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground, From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound. Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore, ascending In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rendmg, Through tower and wall, a path for their array? Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey. With its wild voice, to which the seas reply. And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway, And the far hills repeat their battle cry, Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky. They fail not now, the generous band, that long Have ranged their swords around a falling throne; Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! Shall those high energies be vainly shown? No ! from their towers th' invading tide is driven Back, like the red sea waves, when God had blown With his atroug wmasi iuuuu'iv-uiu« ux«iii^c«=- Shout, warriors of the cross ! for victory is of heaven. IN VKRSE. voiMvp.n- 223 Stand firm J Atrain *u And the waveTfo ",?''!'"' ''"" '' '"^hing. With all theATtiZaS ?\'\^''"''y' '"■««?. F-t o'er the/rtiSs: ruS f„Te'' ."'""'^ '' g-*-? ^tand firm ? fjiP.^^ , * • V *® ''^^ ^^^P- In the red n,oa ,llV''"'P''' ">' ='^'=«''« " steep And from on t^ht i^,',"l T*" ""= '''''"'• But those that fen ™.l' ' t'"""^" '» ^-"i": • there unheard' Yr„ '~'"''"^ ""i"" alone Of trampled thousand, "^ ""' ""'* ""^ "^ Bute.eU.heunheede|-„^rh7a;rK;., fZ' ti: "Sir r "8'"« -". Fiash, frL^thfshtu^'jltP: Jh"" "»t'r ^ "y» But fearful thin.,s Zkn! "'^ "^ 8'""<^' Workings of wa^h :'d"ZV"''''f' »'<' ""-o. pair ! """ "«"">> "'"1 anguish, and des- A °:d trsVhi^o:' bti-'^'' " -"- «■•-. «od .. that n:trrp^!:Ltfgo::rs' """ ""'^ ' And stanch the bloor?^!^ tliy i,halter'd mail. % swifter y ^,X^;^^X: ^'"''"^'^ ^^^"^" «°"^ ^^ut there ai tnU J^^^;'."« Pour as hail ; Oh. hannv .-,. ,..„./' "^"'^ P"""'' "■•" "ut began. PPy in their hom iiie seal is set on their m Earth has drunk deep the the nob; .n^ajestic fain, generous e dead Wood they shed, 224 rUOMlSCUOUS SELECTIONS Fate has no po;vei' to dim their stainless name. They may not, in one bitter moment, shame Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame. And stars drop, fading, from the diadem; But the bright past is theirs— there is no change for them ! The Cross of the South. In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread, And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high. The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire- fly's red light, ^ With its quick glancing splendour illumines the night; And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth. Bpt to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,— Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine, Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main My fathers unfolded he ensign of Spain, And planted their faith in the regions that see Its nnperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee. How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious, and awful, and Igne, Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when llie deep Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep! As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,^ When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd; Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow Made the billows the path of their glory, wert tho»i And to me, as I traversed the; world of the west. Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest; .;a have „ 1, tiiTr ji(-)iivop ig 9 2uide— • lliy iVuCa Hlivu u iaiij^uttj^c, r.itj ^ _ By forests and riversuntamed in their pride, «sfm-mmi^ -immt. IN VERSE. 225 ^»^d— Husband and wifrchr 'dttht"'' "'^ "'■"'" Alask tl,e deltte .[, "! ''" '"'"'""'S' Bnt ni I ,^ •'^ ^ '"^'''^' morning. Who drani tv:j,ii;: : e^ :^":rb.:;r ' L"f Fo.^^..y ..new that their b.^'w^o'SiteZ'^,. Tw. U.e few fait,.f„, „„,, ,„„ ^.„, ^^__^^^^_^ ^^^^ Co-jeeaied '^ong the ™ist where the heati.fow, wa, """hovtln^"'"'"^" "' '^"'•''''■'» -o-nd the™ were """eovfrr;."'"'" '''- ™"»" "-gl. the thin ™ist, AMhehostof^„„g„1,-ttrn^n|,X:ier sln-onded, "' ' "***'^^'^'^« a»u fire they were ''"""' ^'""""' "'"'«"'-'~ah„ and u„ch,uded, ,*; 232 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbend- Th^y 'stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleam- Sj The heralets were cleft, and the red blood was streamm.. The heavens grew davk, and the thunder was rolhng, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was A chario't of fire through the dark cloud descended; Its drivers were angels, on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels ttn-ned on axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the H.venth refining; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation. Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Though the path of the thunder the horsemem are GHde "swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory! Kossuth's Soliloquy. Renounce my faith? than which no greater loss- Embrace the crescent? Spurn the ho y cross .^ Exchange my creed for Moslem's heathenish nte:" Reject my Saviour? IMl Mahomet's flight, The dawn of day upon benighted man? Pronounce the Bible false, but true the Alcoran? Call Christians dogs, and to avoid the wratli Of tyrants, take the name of Amurath? What! shall 1 perjure faith, deny the truth, And brand with infamy my name, Kossuth i' And shall I cower beneath a Despot s rod, Keject ray Davio _ ~^A AnnV mV CtQQ? Ur, iillVl \X--: No! My retched land which gave me bleeding country birth, while I tread this earth, unbend- rending. re gleam - Teaming, rolling, hty were nbat was lended; ss, rightness. ibulation, pation. ding, jmem are jre ye, loss — 3? rite? 5S? )ran? birth, rth, IN VERSE. Thaf if '"^/'"" V ""= '^'■'"^s* to "y vow And -c.4r r.riz^r:"^- A martyr to my cause, and libeAv ' Jo barren wni^t,,^ en • . , ^o»sack, To cheer my XlilZf f'' """"""'^ '°™ Kut though my '™n3 '" """'"» "bove. Though by nlrute • LV""""' "™ ''°' '''''''•"''ed. From JwrsoUw/ f"- ' '"■^'' ^<^»^ "^ Wood, Wmt thS ou, hf ' ""'"" "'=" »"'! flood- From ^A:Za:^::::ZT'^'-'^ "r .l.e foe. Our sons enslaved , 1! t • °*^ ""*"-''■>' "»»■ i (Soon shall t&^Cf//™;',!" ■^°'-™' What though the IWvt rl-, ""^'S'-'we swerve,) VV^oortou^legfon^'Srov.'to'^;''^™''^'^'"''- 1" which he uTes to^^^AStT'''" <='•'«'''. Oh, Hungary my co ,m I i^" "•^"'" ■"»' '^^J- When mornLS '„", T- ^.^""^"' «""■' """'. Upon thy fertfle ,„lt^ 'J; f /''f '"°™"'in'» b^v. ^it up thy lakes „„d?,;;nXi,'r:', lirave are iliy sons tl,l ,if i x ^ streams. 233 234 rUOMlSCUOUS SELECTIONS Could not prevail upon the field of fight. But blusii, Hungarians! blush, the treachery Of thy own sons lias lost the victory. For Austrian honours and the Russian gold, The traitor Georgey has his country sold. -Proud Georgey ! once the Idol of the State, To thee is left the Magyar's scorn and hate; In mournful strain thy country weeps for thee, And tears of blood shall stain thy memory. God of my country! God of battles, strong! To thee, my countrymen, their prayers prolong. Defend our wives and daughters from the power Of cruel despots— shield them in the hour Of blood and torture. Though our sins be great In mercy ^ave them from the oppressor's hate. Oh! once again, my native land set free. Land of my sires! my own loved Hungary! FhiUips. The Flag of England. Raise high the flag of England ! The banner of the brave ! But not to desolate the world, To conquer or enslave; And not for civil warfare, As in the days of yore, When British steel beneath its folds Was bathed in British gore. Each flaunting rag, A nation's flag, May boast of deeds like these; But we men, The free men. Claim nobler victories. Raise high the flag of England ! If, 'mid the battle crush, Its only triumphs had been won, An i:ngli^hman might blush. If, by nggressivc armies, Its b'-ighie«t fame was bought, We'd groan to think our fathers wrong, And' deem its glories nought ; IN VERSK. We'd weep to own And tMhe world proclaim, A "at we men, The free men, VVould earn a better fame. Raise high the flag of England ' The meteor of the fight ! " That never flashed on battle-field Except to lead the right; ' That never graced the triumphs Of C^sars or their hosts, Or earned rapine and reveige To unoffending coasts. ^ Unfurl it high, In puritj, The flag without a stain I J- hat we men, The free men, May swear by it again. Wherever it has floated, Lipon the sea or land, iljere enterprise has ventured Her argosies, high piled; J^er deeds like these, in storm and breeze. Our flag has been unfuri'd And we men, The free men, ^nn show them to the world, it led our sons undaunted, VVith earnest souls sublime. To^track the bounds of earthi; space zone p"'' -'-■— •' r " 232 Tl every cl ime m£e^:;r ^""''' ^^^^li-haunted, »Mie e southern oceans roll- ihrough swamps and deserts of th« t • Or ice.fiehls of the Pole "^* I 236 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Wherever Tratle Or Science bade, Discovery turned her prow, That we men, The free men, Might glory in it now. C. S. Mackai/. The Soldier's Dream. Our bugles sang truce— for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk- on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die — When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw, ^ By the wolf-scaring ftiggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning 1 dream'd it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed or. " Now here kt ns place ±'' ^''^ io-ely and hoar; " Why speak ye no'Zd?" f^f/'ir ' "^ T^ «^'™- " And tell ''"'^ G'enara the stern. B"« each mantle n„ttt.TaSeTI;ia7d^«> Idream'd of mvl.„i„ tj ,. Cried a voice fr"m the Jn '*""^„°''''^'- ^roud," "And empty thTshrond rd°th.: ' T"''''" ""'' '«»di Glenara- Glenara! no.^VaS'Je »;t:.;^'^ ^^^«" ^en^ts:r.ttctMftd^-- Then a voice from th^t- ' "^ "^ ^o^^J was seen- ;--he,ont:re,■".-^r^e,o£. I dVeS'?h:[ h/r S'i ''T'i "' "- ^---n Wenara! Glenara! now read me my d^am- tdX'rse'rt" rl™::?-?''? ""t.'o 'he ground. From a rocHrte ocean th'! u' '"''^ ^'"^ '•™»''i No- Joy .0 the hor„T?al'l^,rr^^^^^-= Campbell, w.H.nititss„::' Exhausted Jl'S,"S-h.fpr;:;. A Inr^Tr'^ '•" '"*"' ^''°*^ ""^^ near. And L, I'."'"" ^«' '" '"'s ear; ' And that the priest he could not hear, 238 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying I So the notes rung; — " Avoid thee, Fiend !— with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand I— Oh look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine! Oh, think on faith and bliss! — By many a death-bed I have been, And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this."-— The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swellM the gale, And-»-STANLEY! was the cry; — A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye: With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, •And shouted " Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on 1 Were the last words of Marmion. Scott. . t»> The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, 0*er the grave where our Hero we buried. We buried him darkly,— at dead of night. The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moon beams' misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless cofin enclosed his breast. -1 i , .. ^'Vit«->iiri vu-Pt Avmind himi III CISI-^"-' •• — •• xsov Hi oiiCci nor But he lay— like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him! I.V VERSE. 239 ^Tndl'^''*i ''''' '^' P^^y^^« ^e said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow. "Lightly they'll talk of the SDirit thnfa And o'er his cold ashes upbS him^ ^'"^' But nothing he'll reck, if tlL let him*=i. In the grave wher^ a R."!^ 7 , ^ ®'^^P ^" foiave wnere a hJriton has laid him " But half of our heavy task was done Thnf t\ {• aistant and random gun 1 hat the foe was sullenly firing. ^ Slowly and sadly we laid him down, yjrom the field of his fame fresh and .ory! BuT^eletrh^ ""' r '''''' -^ -^-^ llut we left him-alone with his gloryl fTolfe, The Battle of Hohenlinden, ?n h/"^^?'' "^^'^ *^" ^"'^ ^«« low, And i?t''' ^^^ *^" untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Ut Iser, rolling rapidly. But Lind'in saw another sight, ^hen the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light^ ' Ihe darkness of her scenery! ^ach horseman drew his battle-blade. And funous every charger neigh'd. To jom the dreadful revelry i^arflash'd the red artillery I *iS«> 240 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS But redder yet that light shall glow- On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly! 'Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy ! llie combat deepens — On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the gravel Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry!— Few, fev/ shall part where many meet! J The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! Campbell. On the 'Downfall of Poland. O SACiiED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile. And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn; Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid: " O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!— Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains. Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the Kword oii high! And swear, for her to live!— with her to die! He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Flf'Tl'l^fl'^P'^ anr\ d\f\i\T a VirkKnwl ff-^^^t. i.1 C ™. =- -- — ^ , ..,, J „ ..viitvi iiwiii liiuy iUl UI, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm! JN vaiwe. Then peaPd thet.^l-^'^'S^-'-;?,-'* "'^'•• A«d tte loud tocsin MV, Zr^'Xtj^L Hope, for a season, bade tt^X^lj^ *^'' "'"■«»''« And Freedon. s^ril^^fl^^Z'^.t^^^^i Bums the wiU crv rf I P''''' ^'^^^' ""V- Hark! as the sl^fdeHn^^X^hhT^J . And eonstnT^lrrddXlfe ^^'•• or Wood staW S « ,:ft t'''''* "" "-^ host Then bade the 6^7nti\f^ '"'" ^'•^"■"'ling ooast; And heaved an oceCorttrrerbefori Yefe MatthVnVn'"; f """ ^^ •'- ' Friends of Z w„h5 i*""* ^"""^ b'«dl £'="!« in his sL^d^'f .r^r. r"- -ords to man. I et for .Sarmatia's U^k'Jm '^f"' ""> ^a" ' And make her .r,t n " '''"'^ "'»»«• aw her arm puissant as you own I 841 242 fliOMISCCOtJS SELECTIONS Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell- .V»»»,i -the Bruce of BannockburnI Campbell, Lord Ullin's Daughter. A CHIEFTAIN to the Higlilands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver pound', To row us o'er the ferry I" " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" " Oh ! I'm the chief oi Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter: — " And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together ; For, should ho find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather — " His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?" — Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready: — It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome ladyl ** And, by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So — though the waves are raging white— I'll row you o'er the ferry !" By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-Avraith was shrieking. And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men! — Their trampling sounded nearer! " Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady criesj '• Though tempests round us gather, IN VFRSE. '' Rnf* !^^ '*'°'"^ «^ t^e Skies, ii»t not an angry father."— The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,- TheT.'i' 'r '''L""^ ^«'' ^"'"^n hand' Ihe tempest gather'd o'er her- * ArU still they row'd, amidst the roar His wrath was changed to wailing- " « Ac^ll/"'""" '""='''" "-^ <"-i«d in grief The waters wild went o'er his child- y'Ae JExile of Erin Tor his country he slhM J, "° ''"""^ ""-J "hill; For'i^^o CLi'rm'-"' -r^ r' ''-»"■'"" Where once. In Z.l.llT:, itthV'" °"""' _^ He sang tho bold nnthel^ 'of '^ ITZ:^^"'^' ^ever airain in tL" '"''" *""""" ""I to mef Whn/. * ; .*"^ ^''*'«" s"nny bowers *Vher3 my forefathers lived shall t!' ^ , hours J ' ®"'^" ^ »P«nd ihn sw et 243 244 PBOMISCnOUS 8E1^ECTI0NS Or cover my harp with the wild- woven flowera, And strike the bold numbers of Ebin go bbaghI " Erin I my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far — foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends that can meet me no morel Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me! — They died to defend me! — or live to deplore! " "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall! *' Yet — all its fond recollections suppressing — One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw: — Erin! — an exile bequeathes thee— his blessing! Land of my forefathers I — Eeiic go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" Campbell. Lochinvar. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none: He rode all unarmM, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar! He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none — But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For ft laggard in Ic /e, and a dastard in war. Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar! IN VERSE. 243 So boldly he enterM the Netherby Hall Or to dance at our bridal? young Url dr/ar!" we sweiis like the Solway, but ebbs like \ta ti^^i T„"t "aV" ^ """'• "'"• ♦'■is lost love of mine There be raa.dens in Scotland, more lovely Ty "«; Ihat would gladly be bride to the youngUi.itkr!" St'ouarVoff "i"" ?"*•'"" "" '^"'g'" *»''l' i« "P. gt^rjttr„i?^rb?rrct:i^^^^^^^ Now tread we a measurel" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face Tha never a hall such a galliard did gJac;! Id thrh"?'""' "" '■^^ ■""> <>» fo^h^r lid fume plume, "^''^"^"' "~'' ■»''"8«"e "« "onneHnd And^the bride-maidens whiaperM, "•Twere better by Tohave match'd our fair cousin with yonng Lochinvarl" One t. uch (0 her hand, and one word in her ear Wh™ tney reach-d the hall-door, and t"e cUrg"/; stood So light to the croup the fair lady he swunir They'l h7ve Zf. '^T' ?'" ^"^ '""h «nd ,ca„.: There was mounting 'mong Gr»rae. of the Netherby '''ran?' ""*''°^'' "'"' M"'?™",, they rode and they There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Ut, 246 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! So d: "ing in love, and so dauntless in war, Have yQ e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Scott 1 A Beth Gelert. The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn ; And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer : ** Come, Gelert! why art thou the last I 'swellyn's horn to hear? " Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? The flower of all his race! So true, so brave; a lamb at home, A lion in the chase !" *Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watch'd, he served, he cheer'd his lord, And sentinel'd his bed. In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gelert could be found. And all the chase rode on. And now, as over rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise. All Snowdon'.s craggy chaos yells With many mingled cries. That day Llewellyn little loved The chaise of hurt or hare: And scant and small the booty proved; For Gelert was not there. Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward iiied, When, near the portal-seat. His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. IN VEBSE. But when he gain'd the castle-door. Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore His hps and ftmgs ran blood! Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet: His favourite check'd his joyful guise And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. ' Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd— And on went Gelert too And still, where'er his eyes were east, Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view*! O'erturn'd his infant's bed, he found The blood-stain'd covert rent; And all around, the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He call'd his chiId--no voice replied; He search'd — with terror wild; Blood! Blood! he found on every side, But no where found the child! " Hell-hound ! by thne my child's devoured!" Ihe frantic father cried; And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side!— His suppliant, as to earth he fell. No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer waken'd niirh: What words the parent's joy mn tell, To hear his infant cry! Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap, His hurried search had miss'd All glowing from his rosy sleep, ' His cherub-boy he kiss'd! 247 I i : m 24S PROMISCUCWS 3RLBGT10NS Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-— But, the same couch beneath, Lay, a great wolf, all torn and dead — Tremendous still in death! Ah! what was then Llewellyn's paint For now the truth was clear: The gallant honnd the wolf had slain-. To save Llewellyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewellyn*s wo; "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low> This heart shall ever rue!** And now a ffallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture deckM; J And marbles, storied with his praise. Poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pas*. Or forester, unmoved j Here oft the tear-besprinkled grasa Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And, oft as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell! Speneer. Bruee to hi& Army. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory I Now's the day, and now's the hour, See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power. Chains and slavery I Wha will be a traitor-knave? V/br can fill a coward's grave? vViiH sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! IV VERSE. Wha, for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword v >uld strongly draw t reeman stand or freeman fa', ' Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! ^ay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die! 249 Bums. The Sailor's Orphan Boy. Btay, lady— stay, for mercy's sake And hear a helpless orphan's tale: Ah! sure my looks must pity wake— Tis want that makes my cheek so pale' let 1 was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy e But in the Nile's proud fight he died— And I am now an orphan boy! Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I When news of Nelson's victory cam'e Along the crowded streets to fly, To see the lighted windows flame! lo force me home my mother sought— She could not bear to see my joy' For with my father's life 'twas bought— And made me a poor orphan boy! The people's shouts were lung and loud- My mother, shuddering, closed her ears: Knioice! rejoice !" stUl cried the crowd— u r^l T*''®'' answered with her tears! Oh! why do tears steal down your cheeks," U-ied I, '* while others shout for ^v?" She kias'd me, and, in accents weakr*^' bhe cnll'd me— her poor orpjian boy! ' ^2 -^ . n lii; ?50 f ROSlISGUOtS 8ELECTJ05S " What is an orphan boy?" I said; When suddenly she gasp'd for breath. And her eyes closed; I shriek'd for aid: — But, ah ! her eyes were closed in death ! My hardships since — I will not tell; But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah! lady I have learn'd too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy! " Oh I were I by your bounty fed I — Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread — The sailor's orphan boy has pride! "Lady, you weep: — what is't ycu say? You'll give me clothing, food, employ! Look down, dear parents! look and see ' Your happy, happy orphan boy!" Mri. Opie. Battle of the Baltic. . Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown. When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone: By each gun .' e lighted brand In a bold determined hand. And the prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afioat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine j While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest — held his breath For a time! But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And htr van the fleater rnshM IN VER8B. d«i O'er the tieadly space between. Spread a death-shade round the ships, i^ike the hurricane ech'pse ^ Of the sun I Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— 1 heir shots along the deep slowly boom:-^ Ihen ceased— and all is wail, As thej strike the shattered sail; Or, m conflagration pale, Light the gloom ! Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave, Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save!— So peace, instead of death. let us bring: But yield, proud foe. thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet. And make submission meet To our king." JJ^» Denmark bless'd our chief, Ihat he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief *rora her people wildly rose; As Death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun look'd smiling-bright ^ U er a wide and woful sight; Where the fires of funeral light Died away! Now joy, old England, raise * or the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blate, While the wine-cup shines in light!— And yet, amidst that joy and uwna^ ijet us think of them "that sleepV" "' Full many a fathom deep. I 252 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS I Brave hearts! to Britian's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant — good Riou ! Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful roils, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls or the brave! Campbell. The Ocean. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods; There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society when more intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews; in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with thy shore; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed^ nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own; When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncofiin'd, and unknown! His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise, And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. IN VERSE. 25B The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Ut rock-buiIt cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals— The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make J heir clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war— These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake, Ihey melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? ihy waters wasted them while they were free And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 1 he stranger, slave, or savage ! their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:— not so thou Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play— Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow— buch as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now ! Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Wasses itself in tempests !— in all time- Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving— boundless, endless, and sublime ! Ihe image of Eternity !— the throne Of the Invisible !— Even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep-are made ! Each zone Obeys thee ! Thou goest forth, dread ! fathomless ! alone! Byron, The Present Aspect of Greece. He who hath bent him o'er the dead, . Ere the first day of death is fled— The first dark day of nothingness. The last of danger and distress- Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lin<^ers And mark'd the mild angelic air. The rapture of rennso thnf'a ttior.Q , Ihe flx'd, yet tender traits, that streak i^ha languor of the placid cheek— 254 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not — wins not — weeps not — now— And but for that chill changeless brow, Whose touch thrills with mortality; And curdles to the gazer's heart. As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon— Yes — but for these — and these alone — Some moments — ay — one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power. So fair — so calm — so softly seal'd The first — last look — by death reveal'd ! Such is the aspect of this shore. *Tis Greece — but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, "We itart — for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom. That liue which haunts it to the tomb — Expressif I's last receding ray, A glide nalo hovering round decay, The if ewell beam of Feeling past awaj ! Spark of that flame — perchance of heavenly birth — Whicli gleams — but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! The Battle of Blenheim. It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done; And he, before his cottage door. Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother .'Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found, He came to ask what he had found; That was io large, and imooth, and round. IN VERSE. Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, « wu ^?"^.Poor fellow's scull." said he Who tell m the great victory ! "I find them In the garden, For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out : For many thousand men," said he, ** Were slain in that great victory !'' "Now, tell us what 'twas all about,** Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder- waiting eyes; "Now, tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for." *♦ It was the English," Kaspar cried, '' Who put the F-ench to rout: But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out. ^^ every body said," quoth he, • That 'twas a famous victory ! " My father lived at Blenheim then, xon little stream hard by ; They burn'd his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly: ^o with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head ! " w**^ ^^^ ^"^ ^"^^^^^ *^e country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then, And new«born hp,b" ''Js^ •__ But things like that, you kliow, muit be At every fanaovs victory. 255 356 PROMISCUOUS SKLECTIONS (C They say, it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun! — But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. " Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good prince Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. ** iNay — Nay — my little girl," quoth he, " It was a famous victory ! " And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. " Why, that I cannot tGii," said he, " But 'twas a famous victory !" Southey. Song of Fiiz Eustace. Where shall the hwer rest Whon the Fates sever From his tniH maiden's breast-^ Parted for ever?^ — Where through groves deep and high Sounds the sad billow, Where early violets die Under the willow — Soft shall be his pillow ! There through the summer days Cool streams are laving. There while the tempest plays. Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shall thou take, Parted for ever ! Never again to wake. Never ! — oIj, never ! IN VERSE. Where shall the traitor rest- He ? — the deceiver, Who would win woman's breast, Ruin and leave her? — In the Jost battle Borne down by the flying. Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying. There shall he be lying.— Her wings shall the eagle Sap O'er the false-harted f His warm blood the wolf shall lap. Ere life be parted ! Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever I Blessings shall hallow it— Never !— oh, never ! 257 Seoti. The Field of IFaierloo. Stop !~for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ? An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ' li the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? Nov column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells sinpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be.— How that red »-ain_hath mnde the harvest grow f And is this all the world has gain'd by theef * Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory? There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright* 1 he lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men- A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arise with its voluptuous swell, boft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. And all went merry as a marriage- bell;— Uut hush! hark! a deep so-md strikes like a rising knell. Did ve not honr i'#?_^xr«. »..,.__ i...j. .1 . . Ur the car rattling o'er the stony street; 2^8 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS .'^1 -'li IP 'ill On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is!— it is!— the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's ftited chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival. And caught its tone with Death's prophetic c.r: And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He.rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting, fell! Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering, with white lips—" The foe! they come, they come !" And wild and high the '* Cameron's gatherin?::" ros'^' The war-note of Lochitd, which Albyn's hilL Have heard— and h(>ard, too, have her Saxon foee: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Snvuge and shrill ! lint with the brenth which fill'' IN VERSE. 259 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineer? With their fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving— if aught inanimate e'er grieves— Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In Its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low! Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-soi^nd of strife, Ihe morn the marshalling in arras,— the day Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder.clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall covr r— heap'd and pent, Kider and horse,— friend, foe,— in cne red burial blent! Byron, Outalissi. Night came,— and in their bow jr, full late, The joy of converse had endur'd— when, hrrk ! Abrupt and loud a sunimons shook their gate; And, heedless of the dog's obstreperrus b' . k, A form had rush'd amidst th( t f,om dark, And spread his arms,— and fi..len ui.i, the floor: Ut aged strength his limbs letain'd lue mark; But desolate he look'd and famish 'd pno^ As ever shipwreck'd wret 'o lone left (ui desert shore. Uprisen, each 'vondering brow is knit and aroh'd: A spirit from the dead they deem him first! To speak lie tries; but quiveriT j,alo. and narc-liM, iMoni lips, as ;?y some uowrle .iream accuiW, rM< 260 PROMISCCOUS SELECTIONS >4- Emotions unintellij^ible burst ; And long his filmed eye is red and dim; At length, the pity-proffer'd cup his thirst Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, When Albert's hand he graspM— but Albert knew not him. " And hast thou then forgot,"— he cried forlorn. And eyed the group with half indignant air, — " Oh ! hast thou. Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, That now is white as Appalachians snow; But, if the weight of fifteen years* despair. And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe, Bring me ray boy — and he will his deliverer know! It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : " Bless thee, my guide!" — but, backward, as he came, The chief, his. old bewilderM head withdrew, And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through. 'Twas strange— r luld the group a smile con- trol — The long, the doi scrutiny to view: — At last, delight o'er all his features stole, " It is — my own!" he cried, and clasp'd him to his soul. — " Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then The bow-string of my spirit was not slack, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushM men, I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack; Nor foeman then, nor cougar's couch 1 fear'd. For I was strong as mountain-cataract ! And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd, Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts ap- pear'd? *^ Then welcome be my death-song, and my death! Hinco i have se^n thee, and again embraced !'* etmdk^*^: IN VBBSE. 261 And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath, But, with aiFectionate and euger haste, Was every arm outstretch'd around their gueat, To welcome and to bless his aged head. Soon was the hospitable banquet placed; And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed On wounds, with fever'd joy, that more profusely bled. ** But this is not a time,"— he started up. And smote his breast with wo-denouncing hand " This is no time to fill the joyous cup ! The Mammoth comes!— the foe!— the monster Brandt ! — With all his howling, desolating band !— These eyes' have seen their blade and burning pine Awake, at once, and silence— half your land I Red is the cup they drink;— but not with wine ! Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine ! " Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 'Gainst Brandt himself I v/ent to battle forth: Accursed Brands ! he left of all my tribe Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth: No !— not the dog, that watch'd my household hearth Escaped, that night of blood, upon our plains I All perish'd !— I alone am left on earth, To whom nor relatii^e nor blood remains No!— not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! " But go and rouse your warriors !— for — if right These old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs Of striped and starred banners— on yon height Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines, Some fort embattled by your country shines: Deep roars the innavigable gulf below Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. Go, seek the light its warlike beacons show ! Whilpt I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe ! Campbell, Outalissi*s Death' Song. ** And I could weep:" — the Onyvdo p-biaf His desc»nt wildly thug begun; >» l''i M 262 nioMiscuous selections " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son ! Or bow his head in wo; For, by my wrongs and by my wrath! To-morrow Areou ski's breath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep; — Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, i To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sun — thy heaven— of lost delight! "To-morrow let us do or die! — But when the bolt of death is hurl'd. Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world? — Seek we thy once-loved home? — The hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers! Unheard their clock repeats its hours! Cold is the hearth within their bowers! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread. Would sound like voices from the dead! "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue. Whose streams my kindred nation quaff^'d, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? — Ah! there, in desolation, cold, The desert-serpent dwells alone. Where grass o'^^rgrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown. Like me, are death-like old ! Ihen seek we not their camp — for there— The silence dwells of my despair! IN VERSE. "But hark, the trump !— to-morrow thou In glory's fires shall dry thy tears ! Even from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clouds that round us roll ! He bids my soul for battle thirst- He bids me dry— the last !— the first ! The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ! Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief." 263 Campbell. Lord William. No eye beheld when William plunged Yound Edmund in the stream; No human ear, but William's heard Young Edmund's drowning scream. Submissive all the vassals own'd The murderer for their lord; And he, as rightful heir, possess'd The house of Erlingford. The ancient house of Erlingford Stood in a fair domain, And Severn's ample waters near RoH'd through the fertile plain. And often the wayfaring man Would love to linger there, Forgetful of his onward road, To gaze on scenes so fair. But never could Lord William dare To gaze or? Severa's stream ; In every wind that swept its waves He heard young Edmund scriiam. In vain, at midnight's silent hour, Sleep closed the murderer's eyes; In every dreamy the murdp.rpr h^w Young Edmund's form arise ! ,f;M 4 264 PROMISCDOUS SELECTIONS In vain, by restless conscience driven, Lord William left his home, Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, In pilgrimage to roam. To other climes the pilgrim fled — But could not fly despair ; He sought his home again — but peace Was still a stranger there. Slow were the passing hours, yet swift The months appeared to roll; And now the day return'd, that shook With terror William's soul — A day that William never felt 1 Return without dismayj For well had conscience kalendar'd Young Edmund's dying day. A fearful day was that ! the rains Fell fast with tempest roar. And the swoln tide of Severn spread Far on the level shore. In vain Lord William sought the feast. In vain he quaff 'd the bowl, And strove with noisy mirth to drowa The anguish of bis soul — The tempest, as its sudden swell In gusty bowlings came. With cold and deathlike feelings seemM To thrill his shuddering frame. Reluctant now, as night came on, Kis lonely couch he press'd; And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, To sleep — but not to rest. Beside that couch his brother's form, Lord Edmund, seem'd to stand; Such and so pale, as when in death 11^ JJ t? .<» I^.uuj^' u •4tat UlUlilQI ■ ttuitci. ••WM I.V VERSB. Such and so pale his face, as when/ T wm/^'",' and faltering tongue, lo William's care, a dying charge, He left his orphan son. **I bade thee with a father's love Mj orphan Edmund guard- Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge ! JNow take thy due reward !" ^%l\arted up, each limb convulsed vvith agonizing fear: He only heard the storm of night,— Twas music to his ear. When, lo! the voice of loud alarm His inmost soul appals; « What, ho ! Lord WiUian, rise in haste ! Ihe water saps thy walls!" He rose in haste, beneath the walls He saw the flood appear; It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now, INo human aid was near ! He heard the shout of joy, for now A boat approach'd the wall; And, eager to the welcome aid. They crowd for safety all. *' M^ boat is small," the boatman cried, " Twill bear but one away; Come in, Lord William ! and do ye In God's protection stay." Strange feeling fiU'd them at his voice, Even at that hour of wo, That, save their lord, there was not one Who wished with him to go. But William leaped into the boat, His terror was so aore; " '^^ ^'^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^y «oW!" cried be, Haste! — haste to yonder shore!" Th^boatraan plied the oar, the boat Went iigijt along the stream— 285 M m •iiiit ii 266 PEOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Sudden Lord William heard a cry, Like Edmund's drowning scream. The boatman paused: " Methought I heard A child's distressful cry!" " 'Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply; " Haste! — haste! — ply swift and strong the oar! Haste! — haste across the stream!" — Again Lord William heard a cry Like Edmund's drowning scream. " I heard a child's distressful voice," The boatman cried again. "Nay, hasten on! — the night is dark — And we should search in vain!" "And, oh! Lord William, dost thou know How dreadful 'tis to die? And can'st thou, without pitying, bear A child's expiring cry? " How horrible it is to sink Beneath the chilly stream, ''o stretch the powerless arms in vain, In vain for help to scream!" The shriek again was heard: It came More deep, more piercing loud: That instant, o'er the flood, the moon Shone through a broken cloud: And near them they beheld a child, Upon a crag he stc id, A little crag, and all around Was spread the rising flood. The boatman plied the oar, the boat Approach'd its resting-place; The moon-beam shone upon the child. And show'd how pale his face. "Now reach thine hand!" the boatman cried, "Lord William, reach and save!" — The child stretched forth his little hands, To gniop the hand lie gave — ■ IN VERSE. 267 Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd Was cold, and damp, and dead! He felt young Edmund in his arms! A heavier weight than lead! The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk iJeneath the avenging stream; He rose, he shriek'd—no human ear Heard William's drowning scream ! Southey, The Mariners of England, Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Ihe battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again, lo match another foe! And sweep through the deep. While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and Ion-. And the stormy tempests blow! ^ The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For the deck it was their field of fame And ocean was their grave; ' Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell lour manly hearts shall glow, ' As ye sweep through the deep. While the stormy tempests blow! While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy tempests blow! Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves! Her home is on the deep! With thunders from her native oak, fcjhe quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and !on- And the stormy tempests blow! °' lea It in O^M ^ p%/^^^ V, cr^fefc. V WJ^ .^ ■^ •> /W 'm '// 7 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET ;MT-3) 1.0 2.2 I.I £ us 2.0 1.8 Photographic Sciences Corporation % y»^ /. {■/ <9 A f/. ''^ 1.25 U ||.6 4 6" ► /^^ ^^ # 4G-^ V l\ ]3 •MfST MAIN STRUT WIftSTIRN Y 14910 (716} •72-4S03 4^ ^0" ^ [cP L^- vV ^ Fh?"" m 268 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The meteor-flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; » Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow: When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Campbell. Thunder' Storm among the Alps. It is the hush of night; and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, iMellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen — Save darkened Jura, whose capp'd heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing neai-. There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar; Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill! At intervals, some bird, from out the brakes, Starts into voice a moment-^then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill — But that is fancy, for the star-light dews All silently their tears of love instil. Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. The sky is changed! — and such a change! O night. And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong! Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags araoiiry, Leaps the live thunder! — not fi*ora one lone cloud. But every mount) ii now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud I Hf VEBSE. 239 As if they did rdo,V» ^f '** ">»»''*ai>>-niirtli, ey d.d rejoice o er a young earthquake's birth. ^ hU whottrA:xri„tr; r """'' Wh.oh bhghted their life's bloom. andXn-aepart- That f„ such'^'^^as* de^illr^-^t'' There the hot shaft should blast wLTer the^i. i^k'd. Bifron. Ode to TVinter. When first the fierj.«antled sun Sl^vu' '^5'^ ""^ «^^«" blue His children four, the Seasons, flew. i^imm green apparel danciW Rosy S^^"°^ ^''""«^ ""'^^'^ ^it»» angel-Krace- Ko^jr Suranier, next advancing. ^ ^ "'^*- ""-"" iruu ner oire'8 embrace— 1*1 270 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS m Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep. On India's citron -co ver'd isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone! * But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star. And loves on deer-borne car to ride, With barren darkness l^ his side, Round the shore wheio loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale! , Round the hall where Runic Odeiv Howls his war-song to the gale! — Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm. Deflowering Nature's grassy ro^e. And trampling on her faded iorm: Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to hij polar field. Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-cover'd shield! O sire of storms! — whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear. When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye. Implores thy dreadful deity — Archangel I power of desolation! Fast descending as thou art. Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer. And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare. Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; — To shuddering Want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend; And gently on the orphan head Of Innocence descend!—- IN VERSE. 271 But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! Ihe sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep. And spectres walk along the deep ! Milder yet thy snowy breezes -__f our on yonder tented shores. Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. O winds of Winter ! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air. At shneKs and thunders louder than your own' Alas ! even your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim, fallen low- But man will ask no truce to death,— No bounds to human wo. Campbell The Arab MaicTs Song. Fly to the desert! fly with me! Our Arab tents are rude for thee • But oh! the choice what heart can doubt Ot tents with love, or thrones without? Our rocks arc rough— but, smiling there, ihe acacia waves her yellow hair. Lonely and sweet; nor loved the less tor flowering in a wilderness. Our sands are bare-but down their slope Ihe silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily Hprings, ^s o'er the marble courts of kings! Then come!--thy Arab maid will be Ihe loved and lone acacia-tree; The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart,— As if the soul that minute caught Kama «'m<2. .. !a At . ..^ .^ - -".-t«.. -iwaBUij; II inrougii iiiu had sought I- il ^2 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS As if the very lipg and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us then! So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone ; New — as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome — as if loved for years! Then fly with me! — if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. Come!— if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 'tis by the lapwing found !^ — But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipped image from its base, To give to me the ruin'd place; Then, fare thee well— I*d rather make My bower upon some icy lake. When thawing suns begin to shine. Than trust to love so false as thine. Mome. Flight of 0* Connor's Child, and De< \ of her Lover, At Weating of the wild wateh-fold Thus sang my love—" Oh, come with me \ Our bark is on the lake — behold Our steeds are fastened to the tree. Come far from Castle- Connor's clans! — Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild fowl and the honey- comb; And berries from the wood provide. And play ray claruhech by thy side — Then come, my love!"~How could I stay? IN VKRSE. Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way And I pursued by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran's eyes! And fast and far, before the star Ui day-spring, rush'd we tliroirgh the glade And saw at dawn the lofty bawn ^ ' Of Castle-Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage ?L u' ""P!?"gh'd, untrodden shore; Like birds all joyous from the cage, And well he knew, my huntsman dear, VVhile I, his evening food to dress. Would sing to him in happiness! But oh, that midnight of despair, When I was doom'd to rend my hair! Th! "•^^*' ^^"^^ ^^ shrieking sorrow! The night to him-that had no morrow! When all was hush'd at evea-tfde, I i^^l^ *^^J,^>^'"g «f their beagl^: -Ti« r'?J "^ ^^"°^«^* Moran cried, lis but the screaming of the eagle"- Alas! twas not the eyrie's sound, Their bloody bands had track'd us out: And, hark! again that nearer shout Wrings faster on the murderers. InTairr' ^.''^-:I^''«-'I-Desmond fierce! In vain^no voice the adder charms; AnolLTr^^'r^'f ""y ^^^^tering arms; Another 8 sword has laid him low— Another s and another's ; And every hand that dealt the blow— Ah me! it was a brother's' Yes, when his moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the chn^ And T beheld— God! O GodI— 273 His life-blood u2 ■ UU SUU i Campbell. w 274 PROMISCDOUS SELECTIONS Ode to Eloquence. Heard ye those loud-contending waves. That shook Cecropia*s pillar'd state? Saw ye the mighty from their graves Look up, and tremble at her fate? Who shall calm the angry storm? Who the mighty task perform, And bid the raging tumult cease? See the son of Hermes rise, With siren tongue, and speaking eyes, Hush the noise, and soothe to peace! See the olive branches waving O'er Ilissus' winding stream, Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving, ' The Muses smiling by supreme!, See the nymphs and swains advancing, To harmonious measures dancing: Grateful lo Pseans rise To thee, O Power! who can inspire Soothing words — or words of fire. And shook thy plumes in Attic skies! Lo! from the regions of the north. The reddening storm of battle pours, Rolls along the trembling earth, Fastens on the Olynthian towers. " Where rests the sword? where sleep the brave? Awake! Cecropia's ally save From the fury of the blast: Bur£t the storm on Phocis' walls! Rise! or Greece for ever falls; Up! or Freedom breathes her last." The jarring slates, obsequious now. View the patriot's hand on high; Thunder gathering on his brow, Lightning flashing from his eye. Borne by the tide of words along, One voice, one mind, inspire the throng: " To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry; IN VERSE. « Grasp the shield, and draw the sword; Lead us to Philippi's lord; ' Let us conquer him, or die!" Ah Eloquence! thou wast undone: Wast from thy native country driven, When Tyranny eclipsed the sun, And blotted out the stars of heaven! When Liberty from Greece withdrew, And o'er the Adriatic flew To where the Tiber pours his urn- bhe struck the rude Tarpeian rock, bparks were kindled by the strokeL Again thy fires began to burn ! Now shining forth, thou raadest compliant The conscript fathers to thy charms, Roused the world-bestriding giant, ' Smkmg fast in Slavery's arms. I see thee stand by Freedom's fane, J:'ouring the persuasive strain, Giving vast conceptions birth: Si i ^??'' *^y thunder's sound. Shake the Forum round and round, bhake the pillars of the earth ! First-born of Liberty divine! Put on Religion's bright array: Speak ! and the starless grave shall shine Ihe portal of eternal day! Rise, kindling with the orient beam, Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme, U ntold the garments roird in blood ! Wi'th ."ll ^i! ' '^^}-'oach all her chords A r omnipotence of words, And point the way to heaven— to God! The Sister's Curse, "And go!" I cried, « the combat seek, re hearts that unappalled bore Ihe anguish of a sister's shriek 275 T I "II if 276 PROMISCUOUS 8ELBCTI0NS Go! — and return no more! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand ShtU grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.'* stranger I by my country's loss! And by my love! and by the cross! 1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that severM nature's yoke; But that a spirit o'er me stood, And fired me with the wrathful mood; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak the malison of heaven. They would have cross'd themselves all mute; They would have pray'd to burst the spell; ' But, at the stamping of my foot, Each hand down powerless fell! ** And go to Athunree!" I cried, " High lift the banner of your pride ! But know that where its sheet unrolls. The weight of blood is on your souls! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern! Men shall no more your mansion know; The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Dead as the green oblivious flood, That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O'Connor's blood ! Away! Away to Athunree! Where downward when the sun shall fall. The raven's wing shall be your pall; And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face!" A bolt that overhung our dome, Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, Peal'd in the blood-red heaven! Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw: But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view. An( 1 IN VERSE. O'Connor's plumed partisans, Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom: A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd, And all again was gloom ! 277 Campbell. Alexander's Feast, TwAs at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son. Aloft in awful state, The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound- 550 should desert in arms be crown'd. The lovely Thais, by his side, Sat like a blooming eastern bride In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.— Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave, deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: Ihe trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seat above Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spheres he vode, When he to fair Olympia press'd, worTd^'"^ an image of himself, a sovereign of the The listening crowd admire the lofty sound: " A present deity!" they shout around;— " ^ ?,^r^\^"* ^^'*^'" *^6 vaulted roofs rebound— With ravish'd ears 278 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The monarch hears, Assumes the gotl, Affects to nod, And seems to f)hake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, anoi ever young I— The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets! beat the drums! Flush'd with a purple grace. He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath! — he comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: \ Rich the treasure; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain! Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again: And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain! The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied — Changed his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse. Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good ! By too severe a late, Fallei! fallen! fallen! fallen! Fallen from his high estate. And weltering in his blood ! Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies, "With not a friend to close his eyes! "With downcast look the joyless victor sute. Revolving, in his alter'd soul. The various turns of fate below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears heean to flow! m VERSE. The mighty master smiled, to see That love was in the next degree: Twas but a Jtindred sound to move? For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, ^on he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour, but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroving. 11 the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying ! Lovely Thais sits beside thee, lake the good the gods ] rovide thee. Ihe many rend the skies wiv-^ loud applause: &o love was crown'd; but muric won the cause -. ihe prince, unable to conceal nis pain. Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sighM and look'd, bighd and look'd, and sign'd again: At length, with love and wine at onca oppressM, Ihe vanquished victor— sunk upon her breast! Now strike the golden lyre again ? A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder! Hark ! hark I—the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead; And, amazed, he stares around : Revenge! Revenge! Timotheus cries- See the furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear. How tbey hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes' Behold a ghpstly band. Each a torch in his hard ! These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain. And, unburied, remain Inglorious on the plain ! 279 280 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS i Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew ! Behold ! how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! — The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey! And, like another Helen, fired — another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre. Could swell the soul to rage— or kindle soft desire. At last, divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds. And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to t'^e skies; She drew an angel down! Dryden, The Passions, When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions eft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. By turns, they felt the gloM^ng mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch*d her instruments of sound; An 1 I 281 IN VERSE. And, as they oft had heard apart bweet lessons of her forceful art, Each— for Madness ruled the hour- Would prove his own expressive power. First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try Amid the chords bewilder'd laid; And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Jiven at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire. In lightnings own'd his secret stings • in one rude clash he struck the lyre ' And swept, with hurried hands, the strings. With woful measures, wan Despair— Low sullen sounds I-his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled airf Iwas sad, by fits— by starts, 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair. What was thy delighted measure! \r.A r A ^\^i^'«Per'd promised pleasure, And bade the ovely scenes at distance hail, ^till would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. And J r ^'^^^ ''^" ^*"*^"g^' ^" her song. And, where her sweetest theme she ehose. A sott responsive voice was heard at everv closet And^Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved Lr^oWen And longer had she snng-but, with a frown. Kevenge impatient rose He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look, A 1 ?,''® ^af-^Jenouncing trumpet took, And blew a bla.t, so loud and dread, Were ne er prophetic sounds so full of wo; And, ever and anon, ho beat The doubling drum, with l\ rioua heat. u uiougn, iometimed, each dreary pause between Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, 282 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight — seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd; Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd: And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, callM on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd; And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft, from rocks around, ; Bubling runnels joined the sound. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay — Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing— In hollow murmurs died away. But, oh! how alter'd was its splightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. Her bow across her shoulders flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung; The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaete-eyed queen. Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, AVhose sweet entrancitifr vuicfi h<> lovp.d tho bflst. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids, IN VERSE. 283 measure ^ Amid the festal-sounding shades, w ^^™^ unwearied minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings. Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-1 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound: And he, amid his frolic play. As if he would the charming air repay, bhook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Collins. Childe Harold's Song. Adieu, adieu!— my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon ♦he sea, We follow in his flight: Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land— Good night! A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies— But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall— My dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page, Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. « Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 1 fear not wave nor wind; " Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorr ,' fnl in mind: 284 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS *'For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, But thee — and One above. " My father bless'd me fervently. Yet did not much compiain; But sorely will my mother sigh, Till I come back again." — Enough, enough, my little lad. Such tears become thine eyo— If I thy guiltless bosom had, Mine own would not be dryl Come hither, hither, my staunch y^owftn. Why dost thou look so pale ? Or dost thou dread a French foeman. Or shiver at the gale? " Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blancli a faithful cheek. « My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake; And when they on their father call. What answer shall she make?'* Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, that am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. For who would trust the seeming sighs Of friend or paramour? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, We late saw streaming o*er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near: My greatest grief is— that I leave Nothing that claims a tear. Anu now I'm in the wuriu ulone, Upon the wide, wide sea: IN VEBSE. 285 ^"l^V should I for others groan^ When none will sigh for me? ^%^:^,*"^,\°^y ^«g wiil whine in vain, lill fed by stranger -hands; iiut long e'er I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. With^thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming bi-ine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, »o not again to mine! Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue wavesi And when you fail my sight. Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves J My native land,— Good night! Byron LochieVs Wanting. ^iW Lochiel! Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on the sight, ^ And the clans 9f CuUoden are scatter'd in Ight: Wo\'^ ^ ;;:*^ • J*'^''^'--^"'' t^elr kingdom and crown, AnTi -^ ?r^ P""^"^^^' insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the liain But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of wir- What steed to the desert flies frantic fnd fef? "^^ SLIT ?.^^T^"»-' ^hose bride shall await, Like a love-hghted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; ^ But Its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, A bml to death and captivity led! Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead: r^Z'"T?u'f 'T'^ °'"^ ^"^l«dea shall wave,, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Oi^'if it J^AFT""^ ^V^^ ^'''^^''^^ *»»«» death-tell. U^ If gory Cullodeo so dreadful annear. rjn^ ^.--t l^y award, around thy old wavering sightV"^ """' Ihig mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright 286 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS m Wizard. Ha 1 laugh'st thou, Lochi^l my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush*d the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Lo ! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah ! home let us speed — for the spoiler is nigh, Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-8ho^ve^ of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. Whose banners arise on the battlement's height. Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dv^elling, all lonely! — return! F6r the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my clan: Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may s .'al. But man cannot cover what God would reveal: 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culioden's dread echoes shall ring With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, ia darkuess uud billows, he sweeps from my sight: I IN VKBSE. 287 Riae! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover bis flight! Tis finish'd Their thunders are hush'd on thf rjoors; ^ulloden is lost, and my country deplores: But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where' *or the red eye of battle is shut in despair, bay, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, Like a imb from his country, cast bleeding and torn? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel ion sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs. And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat. With the snaoke of its ashes to poison the gale til? * soothless insulter! I trust not the For never shaU Albin a destiny meet, bo black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Ihough my perishing r nks should be strew'd in their gore, ^" Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, Whi e the kindling of life in his bosom remains, fejall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And, leaving m battle no blot on his name. Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. Campbell, Gilderoy. The last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me: I hear the dead-note of the drum, I mark the gallows-tree! The bell has tolPd; it shakes my heart; The trumpet speaks thy name? And must my Gilderoy depart To bear a death of shame? 2SS PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS No bosom trembles for thy doom ; No mourner wipes a tear; The gallows' foot is ail thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier I Oh, Gilderoyl bethought we then So soon, so sad, to part, When first in Roslin's lovely glen You triumph'd o'er my heart! Your locks they glittered to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim; Artd graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb! Ah! little thought I to deploPe Those limbs in fetters bound; \ Or hear upon the scaffold-floor, The midnight hammer sound'. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined The guiltless to pursue! My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you! A long adieu ! — but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my wo with scorn? Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thy orphan boy! Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mnuldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away! Campbell. My Mother. At last, O rtiy Mother! thou sleepest; iit lubt, tny poor ncurt is atiii; No longer, dear Mother! thou keepest JN VERSE, A wa^ch in a world of ill. IhougJi I feel of all love forsaken, When thine is no longer near; ret I thank my God, who hath taken Ihee hence, and I shed no tear. ^ wi-i'^T '\^ sorrowful gladness, ciJi.}^- I *5^"^'' ^'^^^ n^^er more Wh-T!/'^"'/^^ ^'"'^^ «"P of sadness, Which thro«gh thy whole life, ran oC When a hard lot pressed severest, TT J V, "'^ had been my care, Had I known that thou, best and dearesti Didst a lighter portion share. But as there ne'er was another On earth more gentle and knid, bo none, my own dove-hearted Mother I Did a heavier burthen find. Yet it woke no voice of complaining. Nor changed thy passionless air, At a time, when to image thy paining, Was more than I well could bear. There needed no whisper of duty To summon me to thy side- To dwell near thy soul-stilling beairty, Was a rapture and a prid<3, Often now, when his peace is riven With visions of shame and fear. The thought that thou'rt happy in heavea Doth thy son's dark bosom cheen' A thousand would call the spot dreary Where thou takest a long repose; But a rude couch is sweet to the weary, And the frame that suffering knows i never rejoiced more sincerely Than at thy funeral hour; Assured, tlmt tho r^n.. j \ j i Was beyond affliction's power. 289 Kennedy. 200 PROMISCUOUS 5KLECTIOX9 The Dream of Eugene Aram. 'TwAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four and twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some tliat ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets iuapool. Away they sped with gamesome mindf, Ana souls untcuchM by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about. And shouted as they ran, — Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man ! His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees I Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close. And fix'd the brazen hasp: '« Oh God ! could 1 so close my mind. And clasp it with a clasp!" Then on his feet upright, , leapinj . Some moody turns he took, — IN VERSK. Now up the mead, then down the mead. And past a shady nook,— And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book ! " My gentle lad, what is 't you read— Romance, or fliiry fable? Or IS it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an '- ward glance,- It IS ' The Death of Abel.' " The Usher took six hasty strides, ^ As smit with sudden pain,— Six hasty strides beyond the place, Ihen slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talk'd with him of Cain; "^ w.^"""^/'"'^ *''^"' ^^ bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; A f ^^ folk cut off unseen. And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves; And how the sprites of injured men fell nek upward from the sod — Aye, how the ghostly hand wifl point lo show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God ! He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,— With crimson clouds before their eyes. And flames about their brain- For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain ! « And well," quoth he, « I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme,— ' Woj^wo, unutterable wo— Who spin lifVs sacred stream ! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder m a dream. ^ 291 292 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS ■i « One that had never done me wrong — A feeble man, and old. I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: * Now here,' said I, ' this man shall die, And 1 will have his gold!' «' Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my foot, But lifeless flesh and bone ! « Nothing bat lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill ; And yet I fear'd him all the more, For lying there so still: ^ There was a manhood iu his look, That murder could not kill ! " And, lo ! the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame- Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead^nan by the hand, And call'd upon his namel « Oh God ! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ! But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain ! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain I " My head was like an ardtn^ v.jal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price; A dozen times I groan'd; the dead Had never groan'd but twice ! » And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost I.eight, I heard a voice— the awful voice IV VER8K. Of the blood-avenging Sprite: * Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!* " I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream, — A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme. My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream. « Down went the corse with a hollow plunffe. And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the schooll " Oh Heaven! to think of their white souls. And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn; Like a devil of the pit, I seem'd, 'Mid holy cherubim ! " And Peace went with them, one aHd all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red ! " All night I lay in agony. In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep: For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of hell to keep ! •' All night I lay in agony, Fro.m weary chime to chimo, With one besetting horrid hint A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unio crime! ^93 294 PROMISCUOUS SELECnONS < I " One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temotation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave ! *' Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead in the river-bed, For the fuithlesss stream was dryf " Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its ^ving; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing; For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran, — There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murder'd man ! " And all that day I read in school, But my thought was other where: As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare ! " Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was onf3 That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should ho Ten thousand fathoms deep ! " So wills the tierce avenging Sprite, I Till blood for blood atones f Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with ptor.es, S VKUSK. 29cJ Ami years have rotted oil" his flesh— The world shall see his bones ! •'Oh God! that horrid, horrid dream 15esots nie now awake ! Again— again, with a dizzy bmin, Tlift human h"fb I take; And my red ri-Iit hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. " And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul,— ^ ^ It stands before me now !" The fearful boy look'd uj), and saw Huge drops upon his brow ! That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, T'.vo stcrn-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. J/ood The Death of Murnt. My hour h comel-For^ot mo n..t!-My bio.sing is with yo„ W th you my last n,y Fonrlest tlu)uo|.( ; uilh you .nj-hcart'^ uli u' 1 mude hee w, o, ami kto a ,iu.MM,--an l.uur, an.l thou art neither. J.ircwe'l, iny la,,- Lotitia, my I.,ve is with theo sdll- .(.uise and Lucien, adieu, and thou, mv own Achille'" With quivering lip but with „., tear, uv tour that oazors saw "'Z-aL'* ' ' "^ '""^'■^ ''"■'' '^^■"'•' ■'••"^ w'uto tho b^avo Then of th« lockH which, dark and largo. ,.'or his br ders Imiitr. That stroam'd war-pouiions in tho ehar^rp, yet like {i;r;;;:,';^;;:':::!,!!;:^:;t™:'.';;«''-V'''"Kr'''"-'''!'" '''"'''■"■• U^ ,.,.. i.:.:: \: .'.. ' -''""V ''"i"-'*''" din c.ul liani .'em: oad shoul- yet like caresbinga He cut him one for wife— fui"cliild— 't iliit, with ti 'l"hf , , , ""'< ail ho had to will; >e lepl wreath and stale, ho lost its heartless chill! iciiKvss of alien power, what ffUhhiiK' I love may thaw? — I lie agony ot sueh mi hour in this— thy htst—i\ iirut! ^mm 296 CUOMISCUOUS SKMlCTlONti " Coniradi' — thoiiglifoc! — n soldior asks from theoa soldier's aid- - Tlioy'ro not awnnior's only tusks tliatiuHHl liis blood mid bladu — That upon which I hitcst ;;u/.o — thut uliich I fondest c'asp, When (loiith my eye-balls wrnps in haze, and stilfens my hand's i^ras])! With these love- locks nronnd it twined, sny, wilt thou see them sent — Need I say \vhere? — Enougli! — 'tis kind! — to death, then — I'ni content! Oh, fo havi found it in the field, not as a ch'iin'd outlaw! No more! — to Destiny I yield — with mightier than Murat! They led him forth — 'twas bnt a stiiJo between his prison-room And wheiv, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's doom, "Soldiers! — your muizha to my breast will leave brief sjxice for pain, Strike to the heart!" — IHs last behest was nlter'd not in vain, lie turn'd him to the leveH'd tubes that hehl the vvish'd for boon; He pazed upon some lovo-elasp'dpledi>e,--tiien volleyed the jdatoon^ And when their hold (he hands t;ave up, the pityin;;' j^azers saw, In the dear image of a wife, thy iieart's best trait, Murat! T. Atkinson. The Spanish Champion. The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his henvt of fire, And sued the haughty kinj^ to free his lonf;-iniprison'd sire: " I brin^ thee here my fortress keys, I briujr my captive train; I pk-ii};e my faith, my lief;e, my lord, oh! break my fal'ier's 1. ' )• * * • lam. "llise! rise! even now thy fatlitr comes, aransom'd man thisday; Mount thy pood steed, and thou and I will meet him on his wayi" Then lightly rose thai loyal sou, and bounded on his steed; And urged, us if with lunce inhand,^his charger's foaming speed. And lo! from far, as on they pa-es^'d, they met a glittering band, AVith one that 'mid them stately rode, like n leiuler in the laiid^ Now haste, IJernardo, haste! lor there, in very truth, is he. The father, — whom thy graletul luarthath yearned so loiigto see. His proud breast heaved, his dark e_>o llash'd, his cheeks' hue came and wont; Hereach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's .side, and there dismi untiiig bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took; What was thcro in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook? That hand was cold, a tVozi'U tiling, it dropp'd froni his like lend; He look'd up lo the face above, the face wa • of the 'lead; A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow was fix'd and wljife lie met ut length his father'H eycD, bnt in them was uo sight I IN VEnSK. 297 jhet'ks' liuo ^'^ '"'^thaf ' frnT*^ ''" '^'"""' ""'' °'''''' ''"' ''•'" can paint They hush'a theii- very hearts wlio saw its horror and amaze- Ihey mijrht have chain'd him, as befr.ro that noble form ho stood- lor the power was strickoH from his arm, and from hi* cheek mo Du;0(i. "^"^''u,c'n-^'"^'"' ''*" '""""'"'^^ '"*^' ""'^ «'^Pt like children He thought on ,, 1 US g onous liopcs, or, all his high renown; 1 hen (lung the falchion from his side, and in the du.t sat do Jn ; And, covmng Willi his steel-gloved hands his darkly-mournful ••No more, there is no more." he snid. " to lift the sword for now; }U k.ng IS false, my hope botrayM, my fath.T, oh! the worth. Ihe glory, and the loveiii.ees, are past away to earth!" Up f'o.n the ground he sprung once more, and seized themonarch's A,"li'whh ^r" '^"^^^i'-'^-'-'^l .'"»^ks of all the courtier train; Ah w,th a (leree ,, ernuustermg grasp, the rearing war-horse led, •• ■«m?'l^^^'rr "^"" '""'/'' *r'' "'" '^'"^' l^"'''^'-« •''« 'lead. It,/!/. ". r "'"'" ''y I''*'"'-''^' '''y f'^^''^'-'--^ hand to kiss? n .11 and ga.e thou on. false king! and tell me what is this? 'tu. '?' '"""' ' ' ^ so„glu-give answer, Where ar« If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay. "Into those glassy eyes put li;;ht; be still, keep down thine ire; H .1 those cold hps a bes, u>g speak.-this earth is not my sire < . ve me baek hun h,r whom I fought, for whom n.y bloo.l wasshed I lu.n canst not. and. () king! his blo.ul be mountains on thy head!" He loosed the rein his slack hand fell upon the silent face- ile east one .ong, ileep, mournlul ghuu-e, anous. Tha Voice of Sprbig. I COMK, I come! ye have call'd me lon-v, I eon,e o'er the mountains with light and son^.- le niay trace my steps o'er the wakenin- eai^th >J the winds which tell of the violet's bhth ' J'}' the primrose stars in shadowy ora.« J>y the Qv^^n leaves opening as 1 pa,..: t> 1^ x,"^ Ji ere Louis, Prince of Conrl Wiih o, w rent Coligni by his side— each And there wtdks she of Medi s star shall pale its waning light, "ears his all-uncontjner'd Sword,* ' name a household wordt* The mother of cis— that proud Italian line n race of k.ngs-(he hiu.ghty Catharinel 20G rUOMlSCUOUS SEM.CTIOXS The fiirms that follow in her tniin, a <;lori()iis sunshi.je make — A milky way ol' slurs that grace a cornet's },'littenn'« heart. The _scene was changed. It was a lake, vn'th one small lonely SfP^n' mb "'^''\" *^' pHson. walls of its baronial pile. sign ""'"^'''"^ '•'''•' '1^-^'^"' ^••l «he sEouid stoop to The traUorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral " \eT^'' ™^ '"''^''" '^" "'P^''' ''*'^' " ^^''-^'•^ ^ ^"* «"^« "^"'•^ With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me That parchment would I scatter wide to every brieTlha blows' And once mon, reign a Stuart queen o'er my^rer.Sloss foes " A recl^ ^spot buru'd upon her cheek-strea^'d her S tres;es She wrote' the words-she stood erect-.a queen without a crown! The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore more'i "' "^ ''' ^'"^^ ''''^ '"""'^ '""'^^ smiling queen'once She tZftl ^*r^"P«" ^ hill-^she saw them marching by_ She heard their shouts-she read success in every flashin- eve — Ind ZfJ . '^'' ''"^1 bogivs-it roars-it dies away > ^ ' tfey ? "''^' ''"'^ ^''"""'' "°^' ""'^ «'n,rtiers-where are O ?S^n"'' strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone,- O God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won 1 Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrovvin thyK^t. ^'''stood! '"^'^ '^'"°''^* ^""'"^^ ^^' ^^"''^ "" sullen headsman '^"^fooT''^ ^^' ^''^""^ ''''''" '"' ''^"''' ^^''^ '^"^^ '""^^ ^l^'P ^vith With slow and steady step there came a lady throu-h the hall And^breathless silence chuin'd the lips, and louch'd the hearts of Rich^were the sable robes she wore-her white veil round her And ftv.m her neck there hung the cross-the cross she loved so I ^S^fU^''^ '^"r."^'; ^T'"! ,",-.'''"' *'^°"Sh lighted was its bloom,- J ?1. I^^l.f'.'i^'^i^ ^"^'^'V-' «».t-'^" "ff'^ving f..r the tomb! I k hone — ''^''^'' '""""" ^'''"'' '^^ *'^'''^' *''^' ""'^^^ ^^ brightly new the voice, though feeble now, that thriU'd with tone ever' !i 308 PROMISCUOUS SKLECTIONS * % 1 know tho ringlets, almost '^roy, once threads of living golJ,— ■ I know thut bDiiiuliiio; gnico of .sto])— tliat symmetry of m. uldl Even now I see her fur uwiiy, in tlint eulm (convent aisle, I hear lior ehant her vespci'-'hymn, I murk her holy smile, — Even now I see b"r l)iir.stin!> forth, nnon her bridal morn, A now star in the firmatieni, to lii;ht'aml glory Ixirn! Alas! the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne. And on the se;ilK»id now she stands — beside the block, alone! The liM'.' dog thiit licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who siinn'd thetiiselves beneath her glance, and round her foot- steps bow'd! Her neck is barod~the blow is struck— the soul is pass'd away; Tho bright— the beautiful— is now a bleeding piece of clay! The dog is moaning pileously; and, as it gurgles o'er. Laps the warm blood that trickling rims unheeded to the floor! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power— the heart-blood of a queen, — The noblest of the Stuart race— the fairest earth has seen,— Ltipp'd b> a dog. Go, think of it, in silence and alone; Jhen weiyh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne! //. G. Bell, SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. The Creation. EiiE Time began his circling race, Or light adoru'd the waste of space, Dwelt the first, great, Eternal One, In unimpnrled bliss alone. Wrapt in himself, he view'd serene Each aspect of the future scene; Then bade at length that scene unfold,— And Nature's volume stood unroH'd. .mV w' " ^^,I^'gl^t!»-and light upsprung: "Be Worlds!"-and worlds on nothing hung: More swift than thought the mandate runs. And forms ten thousand kindling suns. When all the wondrous scene was plann'd, Inimitably fair and grand; In emanations unconfined. Forth flow'd the life-diffusing mind. From the rapt seraph, down to man,— To beasts— to worms— the spirit ran; And all in heaven, and all on earth, 'Midst shouts of joy, received thuir birth. The tribes that walk, or swim, or fly, In various movements, spake their joy ; While man, in hymns, his raptures told, And cherubs struck their harps of gold. The morning stars together sung, The heavens with acclamation,^ rung; And earth, and air, and sea, and skies, Heard the loud choral anthem rise: "All glory to the Eternal give, From whom we spring, in whom we live; Be his Almighty power adored. The sovereign, universal Lord!" Drummond. 310 SACRKD EXXKACTS IN VERSE, God is Every Where. Oh! show me where is He, The high and holy One, To whom thou bend'st the knee, And pray'st, " Thy will be done!" 1 hear thy voice cf praise, And lo! no I'orra is near; Thine eyes J see thee raise, But where doth God appear? Oh ! teach me who is God, and where his glories shine, That I may kneel and pray, and call thy Father mine. Gaze on that arch above — The glittering vault admire! Who taught those orbs to move? Who lit their ceaseless Ire? Who guides the moon, lo run In silence through the skies? Who bids that dawning sun In strength and beauty rise? There view immensity!— behold, my God is there — The sun, the moon, the stars, his majesty declare! See, where the mountains rise; Wliere thundering torrents foam ; Where, veil'd in lowering skies, The eagle makes iiis home! Where savage nature dv ills, iUy God is present too — Through all her wildest dells His footsteps I pursue: He rear'd those giant cliffs— supplies that dashing stream — ' Provides the daily food, vviiich stills the wild bird's scream. Look on that world of waves. Where finny nations glide; Within whose deep, dark caves, The ocean-monsters hide! His DQwsr is sfivereijj'n tiip.r** *h To raise — to quell the storm; The depths his bounty share, Where sport the scaly swarm; SACRKD KXTlwVCTS IN VEUSK. Bit Tempests and calms obey the same Almiohty voice Wh,ch_ rules the earlh and skies, and btds the wc i'«'Joice. Olid Nor eye nor thought can soar Where moves not he in nii^^ht;— He swells the thunder*s roar, '^ He spreads the winp:s of night. Oh^ praise the works divine! " Bow down thy soul in prayer; Nor ask for other sign, That God is every where The viewless Spirit he-immortal, holy, bless'd— Uhl worship him in faith, and find eternal rest! ILfg/i Hutton. The Destruction of Sennacherib. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. And us cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, ihat host with their banners at sunset were seen- Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, Ihat host, on the morrow, lay witlier'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed on the face of the foe, as he pass'd- And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever crew still. • ° And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride, And the ioam of Ins gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale. TT nn me aew on ins brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. Ihe lances unlittod, the ''umpet unblown. SACRED EXTUACTS IN VERSE. And the widows of Ashur are loud in tiieir wail ; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted, like snow, ia the glance of the Lord. Byron. What shall separate u$ from the love of Christ? Who is the foe, my spirit tell, Or what the power of earth or hell. That shall my steadfast bosom move To quit my dear Redeemer's love? Shall tribulation's gloomy train, Or sad distress, or grinding pain, Or persecution breathing blood. Or peril by the land or flood. Or famine howding at my board, Or tyrant arm'd with fire and sword? — Not these, nor worse, my soul appal; Through Christ, I triumph o'er them all And in my secret soul I feel, Not danger, want, nor fire, nor steel; Not all the torments death arrays, Not all the glories life displays; Not empires, diadems, and thrones; Nor angel's joys, nor hell's deep groans; Not all the present hour reveals, Not all futurity conceals ; Nor height sublime, nor depth profound, Nor augiit in all creation's round. Shall e'(>r my steadfast bosom move To quit my dear Redeemer's love. Drummond. IVmhm sought from Go(L Supreme and universal Lightl Fountain of reason! Judge of right! Parent of good! whose blessings flow On all above, and all below; SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 31S Without Whose kind, directing ray. In everlasting night we strayf From passion still to passion toss'd. And in a maze of error lost; Assist me, Lord, to act, to be, What nature and thy laws decree! ^^r*Jy,*hat intellectual flame Which from thy breathing spirit came. My mental freedom to maintain. Bid passion serve, and reason reign, feelf.poised, and independent still Vt this world's varying good or ill. No slave to profit, shame, or fear. Oh may my steadfast bosom bear The stamp of heaven, an honest heart, Above the mean disguise of art! May my expanded soul disclaim The narrow viey, the selfish aim; But, with a Christian zeal, embrace Whate'er is friendly to my race. Father ! grace and virtue grant; No more I wish, no more I want: 1 o know to serve tb ^ and to love. Is peace below, is bliss above. ffenry Moore, The Dying Christian to his SouL Vital spark of heavenly flame I Vjuit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying. Oh the pam, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. -And let me languish into life! Hark! they whisoer— angola «„„ "Sister spirit, come awaf !" "'^' What is this absorbs me quite? steals mj senses, shuts my sight, o 814 SACRED EXTRACTS IN yES$E. Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? — Tell me, my soul, can this be — death? The world recedes! it disappears! Heaven opens to my eyes! — my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! 1 fly! O Grave! ^ ii' /e ia thy victory? O Death! > ere ia thy sting? Pope. Cor\fidence in God. How are thy servants bless'd, O Lord ! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide. Their help — omnipotence. In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by thy care. Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt. And breathed in tainted air. Thy mercy aweeten'd every soil, Made every region please; The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. Think, O my soul! devoutly think, How with affrighted eyes Thou saw*st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise! Confusion dwelt in every face, And fear in every heart. When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfg, O'ercame the pilot's art! Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord! Thy mercy set me free; While, in the confidence of prayer. My soul took hold on thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave. 8A0BED EXTRACTS IN VEBSB. 31^ I knew thou wert not slow to hear. iVor impotent to save. The storm was laid, the winds retired. Obedient to thy will; Ther sea, that roar'd at thy command, At thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, Ihy goodness I'll adorej And praise thee for thy mercies past, - And humbly hope for more. ■^yj^^^—^^ thou preserve my life— Thy sacrifice shall be; And death-if death must be my doom- fehall join my soul to thee. Charity. Come let us sound her praise abroad, Sweet Chanty, the child of God I Tr\T. ZhT ^^'^^ maternal breast The sheltered babes of misery rest; Who, when she sees the sufferer bleed,— Keckless of name, or sect, or creed,— Tn wiT'? ^'^"'Pi ^«°^' ^°^ ^«°k benign, lo bathe his wounds in oil and wine; Who in her robe the sinner hides, And soothes and pities, while she chides; Who lends an ear to every cry, And asks no plea— but misery. Her tender mercies freely fall. Like Heaven's refreshing dews ou all; Encircling in their wide embrace Her friends,~.her foes,-the human race. Nor bounded to the earth alone, ^er iovo cApaiius to worlds unknown- Wherever Faith's rapt thought has soar'd. Or Hope her upward flight explored. 316 SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. Ere these received their name or birth, She dwelt in heaven, she smiled on earth: Of all celestial graces bless'd, The first — the last — the greatest — best! When Faith and Hope, from earth set free, Are lost in boundless ecstasy. Eternal daughter of the skies, She mounts to heaven — and never dies! Drummond, The Cross in the Wilderness, Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, ' And his arms folded in majestic gloom. And his bow lay unstrung* eneath the mound, Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. For a pale Cross above its greensward rose. Telling the cedars and the pines, that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes. And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hush'd; and eve's last splendour shone, With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone. There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild. And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave. Asking the tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak, On the deep dream of age, his accents broke: And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said — " I listen'd for the words, which years ago PassM o'er these waters: though the voice is fled, Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimep the forest's murmur gives them back. " Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath? I was an eaffle in mv vouthful Dride- When o'er the seas he came with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side. 8\CRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 317 Many the times of flowers have been since then:— Many, but bringing nought like him again. " n^* "^It^ K^ l"?,*'"'' ^^^ ^"'^ «P«ar he came, er the blue hills to chase the flying roe : Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, J-aymg their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Cxladdenmg our souls as with the morning's wings. « Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 1 and my brethren that from earth are gone. Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One. the grave's dark ba/>ds who broke. And our hearts bur. ' within us as he spoke! " He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for there are none that die, IT«7«1«?® ^^^A ^^^P' \°^ °o«e that say 'Farewell!' He came to guide us thither;— but away The happy call'd him, and might not stay. " ^« «f7 ^i'n slowly fade-athirst, perchance, * or the fresh waters of that lovely clime; ret was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of time: Therefore we hoped-but now the lake looks dim. i?or the green summer comes, and finds not him. " We gather'd round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree: *rora his clear voice at first the words of power Came ow, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell d, and shook the wilderness ere long. As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. "And then once more they trembled on his tongue. And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head i^ell back, and mists upon his forehead hung— Knnw'af ♦Vinii n^i. I ._...°- It 18 enough! he sank upon my breast,— Our fnend that loved us, he was gone to rest I 318 SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. , " We buried him where he was wont to pray. By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We rear'd this Cross in token where he lay, For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave! ** But I am sad — I mourn the clear li^ ^t taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken, And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past. Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye: ** Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, TJ'hough the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot: Heaven dai^ly works, — ^yet where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen. ** Hope on, hope ever! — by the sudden springing Of green leaves, which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, After cold, silent months, the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains. Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains. " Deem not the words of light, that here were spoken, But as a lively song, to leave no trace! Yet shall the gloom, which wraps thy hills, be broken. And the full day -spring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better paths disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose/' Mrs. Hermans. David and Goliath. When Israel's host in Elah's valley lay, O'erwhelm'd with shame, and trembling with dismay, They saw how fierce Goliath proudly trod Before their ranks, and braved the living God. On Israel's ranks he cast a withering look, And Elah's valley trembled as he spoke. SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 319 ** Ye slaves of Saul, why thus in proud parade Of martial threatening, stand your ranks arrayed? Though high your vaunts, and unsubdued your pride, A single arm the contest may decide. Send forth the best and bravest of your hosts, To prove in me what might Philistia boasts ; And if your champion fall beneath my hand, Let Israel own Philistia's high command; But if his better arm the triumph gain, Her jnelding sons shall wear the victor's chain. You, and your God who rules the cloudy sky, Armies of Israel, I this day defy!" Through Israel's curdling veins cold horror raa. And each sunk warrior felt no longer man: One heart alone its wonted fire retains. One heart alone the giant's threats disdains: David, the last of Jesse's numerous race. Deep in his bosom feels the dire disgrace^ That e*er a godless Philistine, so proud. His single prowess thus should vaunt aloud. Before his prince, magnanimous he stands. And lifts the imploring eye and suppliant hands, With modest griwe, to let him prove the fight, And die or conquer in his country's right. The king and nobles with attention hung To hear the aspirings of a mind so young, But deem his darings, in the unequal strife^ "Were but a fond and useless waste of life. Then David thus: " As erst my flocks I kept, Pale shone the moon-beam, and the hamlet slept; In that still hour a shaggy bear I spied Snuflf the night-gale, and range the valley-side; He seized a lamb, — and by this hand he died. And when a lion, made by hunger bold, From Jordan's swelling streams, o'erleap'd the fold; The brindled savage in my hands I tore, Caught by the beard, and crush'd him in his gore. The God that saved me from the infuriate bear And famish'd lion, still has power to spare; And something whispers, if the r*rife I meet, Soon shall the boaster fall beneath ray feet." 820 SACRED EXTRACTS IN YBRSE. Moved by his words, the king and chieftains yield; His spirit laud, and arm him for the field: In royal mail his youthful i:.nbs they dress'd, The greaves, the corslet, shield, and threatening crest. But ill those youthful limbs with arms accord, And ill that hand can wield the imperial sword; Whence wisdom cautions —these to lay aside. And choose the arms whose power he oft had tried. Straight in his hand the well- proved sling he took. And in his scrip five pebbles from the brook; These all his earthly arms:— but o'er his head, Had Faith divine her sheltering aegis spread. His bosom beats with generous ardour high. And new-born glories kindle in his eye; Swift o*er the field he bounds with vigour light. Marks the gigantic foe, and claims the fight. Now, men of Israel, pour your ardent prayer: " God of our fathers, to thy sovereign care "We trust our champion; for to thee belong Strength for the weak, and weakness for the strong: Arm him with might to vindicate thy name. To smite the proud, and blot out Israel's shame; Let angels round him spread the guardian shield, JL.ad oh! restore in triumph from the field!" Phiiistia's chief now mark'd with high disdain, The light-arm'd stapling rushing to the plain; Saw, with a scornful smile, his airy tread. And downy cheek suffused with rosy red; His pliant limbs not cased in shining mail. No shield to ward, no sabre to assail; But clad like shepherd-swain, — when swains advance To hand the fair, and frolic in the dance. Fierce from his breast the growling thunder broke, And Elah's valley trembled as he spoke. " O powerful Dagon! wherefore was I born? Am I a dog? — the theme of children's scorn? Cursed be thy God! cursed thou, presumptuous boy I But come— draw nigh — and glut my furious joy. ■i-iij iUviuii; i/uuy, cruoii u uuuucim uxy jjowsr. The birds shall mangle, and the dogs devour." SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 321 Then Jesse's son:— <* Accoutred for the field, Proudly thou marchest with thy spear and shield: But I, unarm'd, yet, reckless of thy boasts, Approach, protected by the God of Hosts; That righteous power, whom thy infuriate pride, With tongue blaspheming, has this dar defied. Me, of our race the humblest, has He'^sped, From thy broad trunk to lop thy impious head, And though thy armies wasting vengeance spread;— That all may know, through earth's wide realms abroad, To trust the righteous cause to Israel's God He saves not by the shield, by spears, or si\ v. No more.— Advance— the battle is the Lord. With giant stride the lowering foe draws nigh, Strength in his arm, and fury in his eye; In thought, already gives the ruthless wound, And the scorn'd youth transfixes to the ground. While David, rapid as the fleetest wing. Whirls round his head the quick revolving sling; Aims with experienced eye, the avenging blow At the broad visage of the advancing foe.— How booms the thong, impatient to be free, Wing'd with resistless speed, and arm'd with destiny!— Tis gone— loud-whizzing flies the ponderous stone!— That dirge of death— hark! heard ye Dagon groan? It strikes— it crashes through the fractured bone! Struck in his full career, the giant feels The bolt of death;— his mountain-body reels— And nerveless, headlong, thunders to the ground.— Loud bursts of joy along th?. vale resound: Shout! men of Israel, shout— till earth and skv, With replication loud, re-echo victory! See, see him now, as, flush'd with honest pride, He draws the sabre from the giant's side: Now on the groaning trunk behold him' tread, And from the shoulders lop the ghast'y head! Shout! men of Israel, shout your hero's praise! Send it immortal down to future chv^l Let farthest Dan his triumph loud p oclaim And Sheba's springs resound his glorious name; 02 322 SACRED EXTRACTS IS VERSE. wim> In Jesse's son, O Bethlehem I rejoice; And Salem, thou exalt thy grateful voice ; Thy victor hail triumphant ii: the Lord; Girt with the grisly spoils, he waves the reeking sword. Daughters of Israel, loud his praises sing! "With harp and timbrel hail your future king. By mighty Saul a thousand bite the plain, But mightier David has ten thousand slain ! Drummond. Stanzas on Death. How sweet to sleep where all is peace. Where sorrow cannot reach the breast. Where all life's idle throbbings cease. And pain is luH'd to rest; — Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave, To anchor in the silent grave ! That quiet land, where, peril past. The weary win a long repose; The bruised spirit finds, at last, A balm for all its woes; And lowly grief, and lordly pride, Lie down, like brothers, side by side. The breath of slander cannot come T<5 break the calm that lingers there; There is no dreaming in the tomb. Nor waking to despair; Unkindness cannot wound us more, And all earth's bitterness is o'er. There the maiden waits till her lover comes,— They never more shall part; And the wounded deer has reachM her home, With the arrow in her heart; And passion's pulse lies hushed and still, Beyond the reach of the tempter's skill. The mother — she has gone to sleep. With the babe upon her breast; She has no weary watch to keep, Around her infant's rest: SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSB. 023 His slumbers on her bosom fair , Shall never more be broken —thert. How bless'd— how bless'd that home to gain, And slumber in that soothing sleep, From which we never rise to pain. Nor e?er wake to woep! To win our way from the tempest's roar. And reach with joy that heavenly shore. •Anonymous. Belshazzar's Feast. To the feast ! To the feast ! 'tis the monarch com- mands. — Secure in her strength, (he proud Babylon stands. As reckless of all the high vaunts of the foe, As of the weak zephyrs around her that blow; T'l\u vS?^ r? ^^"^ bulwarks, all power she defies: i.ike the cliffs of the mountain, her turrets arise : /nd swift through her ramparts, so deep and so wide, Jb^uphrates now rolls his unfordable tide. Then on to the feast;— 'tis the monarch commands; becure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands I Witli silver and gold i.re her treasuries stored. And she smiles with disdain at the arrow and swonJ, With the choicest of wheat all her granaries teem. Her oil and her wine in Lroad rivulets stream; ^or twenty long winters no famine she dreads, ^or twenty long summers her banquet she spreadet Ihcn on to the feast;— 'tis the monarch commands feecure m her strength, the proud Babylon standsl A thousand bright cressets the palace illume; A thousand rich censers are wafting perfume; Ihe festival halls lieap'd with luxury shine, High piled are the catec, deep flows the red wine. Ihe wealth of a kingdom there blazes in gold: And harkl the loud flourish of trumpet and drum Announces aloud, that the monarch is come. 324 81.CRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. ■Q , Surrounded with all the proud pomp of his court; How kingly his tread! how majestic his port I The rose, and the myrtle, and laurel, combined In a fillet of gold, round his temples are twined; In robes starred with jewels resplendently bright, He moves like a god, in a circle of light; And now he has taken his seat at the board, As God he is honour'd, as God is adored; While crowding in thousands, the satraps so gay, With their ladies all glittering in costly array, Exulting like eaglets approaching the sun. By their stations are rank'd, and the feast is begun. Now let the loud chorus of music ascend ; All voices, all hearts, and all instruments blend; " The flute's mellow tone, with the cornet's shrill note, The harp and the drum and the trump's brazen throat. And Captains and Nobles and Ladies so bright. To swell the loud anthem of triumph unite. Come — make deep libations to honour the king. Now let our high cheering re-echoing ring, Yet louder and louder! the monarch commands; Secure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands! High praise to our gods of brass, iron, and stone; But most to great Belus, the guard of the throne: All gorgeous they stand in our temples displayed, With gold and with elephant richly inlaid; Our strength and our glory in city and field. In peace our advisers, in battle our shield. To them, mighty rulers of earth and of heaven. All honour, and power, and dominion be given; By them shall proud Babylon, towering sublime, Stand fast in her strength till the dotage of tioie! NovtT giving full wing, in the festival hour. To the thoughts of his heart, and the pride of his power. The monarch desires the rich vessels of gold, The pride of high Salem, before she was sold, 4.0 uQ w-rougut to tiiC bunquct — And now hands pro* fane, And idolatroui lips, their bright purity stain. SACBED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 325 All dim, in the service of idols abhorr'd, Grows the chaUce that once shone so bright to the Lord. But lo! in the hand of the monarch it foams. As hi8 eye, round the walls, half-inebriate roams: And hark! he exclaims—" This fair chalice, so proud. Was once that Jehovah's whose throne is a cloud; iJut, bj Babylon torn from his tem-^e and shrine, Is consecrate now to her glory and . ine! Ye satraps," — Amazement!— 'tis dash'd from his hand. As It struck by some potent invisible wand.— His soul what dire horror has suddenly wrung Ihat palsies his nerves, and relaxes his tongue?— His visage grows pale with the hues of despair. And his eye-balls congeal with an ominous glare: *or see!— on the wall- what strange characters rise! home sentence transcribed from the book of the skies. oy fingers immortal!— How suddenly still Orrows the noise of the banquet!-all fear-struck and chill 3it the revellers now— bound up is their breath. As though they had felt the cold vapour of death. All dimm'd IS the glory that beam'd round the throne. And the god sits the victim of terrors unknown. At length, words find utterance—" Oh haste, hither call The Augurs, Chaldeans, Astrologers, all!— Whoever that sentence shall read and expound, A chain of bright gold on his neck shall be bound: Ihe third of my realm to his power I bestow, And the purple of kings on his shoulders shall glow." The Astrologers come— but their science is vain. Ihose characters dark may no mortal explain, bave one who to idols ne'er humbled his heart. Some seer to whom God shall his spirit impart:— And thftt one ex'o*«'="** ♦» ^i-.^- ^ *^ ^ow grey with the honours and wisdom of age, A Hebrew, a Prophet— to him it is given io read and resolve the dark counsels of heaven. II 326 SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. " O haste! let that sage this strange secret unfold, And his be my power with the purple and gold." While the king and his nobles, distracted in thought, Their doubts are revolving — the captive is brought; But not in that visage, and not in that eye, A captive's dejection and gloom they descry; For he breathes, as he moves, all the ardour of youth, The high soul of freedom, the courage of truth. — See! — o'er his warm features, and round his fair head, A glory divine seems its radiance to shed; And that eye's corruscation, so rapid and bright, Shoots deep to the soul, like an arrow of light; Not even the monarch its frenzy can brook, But he bows to the Prophet, averting his look: For the spirit of God on that Prophet is led, The page of the future before him is spread; In his high-panting heart what rapt fervour ho feels. While the truths that inspire him his language reveals I " Thy gifts, King ! I reck not:— now, now is the hour, When the spoiler shall come — when the sword must devour! Oh! why have cursed idols of wood and of stone Gain'd thy homage; — the right of Jehovah alone? Why yet glows thy heart with idolatrous fire, Untaught by the judgments that humbled thy sire, When driven to herd with the beasts of the wild, Till his pride was subdued, and his spirit grew mild? Now call on thy idols, thy arms to prepare — They see not thy peril, they hear not thy prayer. Where now is thy Belus, when Babylon calls, To scathe the proud foes that beleaguer thy walls? Consumed by that breath which all might can confound. His shrines and his temples now smoke on the ground: While thy haughty blasphemings against the Most High Invoke an avenger — and lo! he is nigh. — This night — nay, this hour — the last sand in thy glass Away with thy life and thy kingdom shall pass. In that writing behold the eternal decree, The sentence of God on thy empire and thee; SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. 327 Thou art weigh'd in the balance of Justice supreme. And light art thou found as the dust on the beam:— Ihe wind of destruction to empty thy land And the fanners, to fan her with fire, are at hand. Atar from thy ramparts, Euphrates aside, In the lake of the Queen, is now rolling his tide, And through his dried channels the keen Persian lance. With the red torch of ruin, and Cyrus advance. Jb^ en now shouts of triumph are rending the air. The revels of joy turn to shrieks of despair. Hark! the din at the gates of the hostile arrray! The fierce axe of battle is hewing its way; ■Thy captains and nobles are falling in gore; And thy reign, and thy life, hapless monarch, are o'er I" Drummond, The Burial of Moses, Not a form was seen, not a requiem sung. Not a grave does a follower prepare him, ^ut a melody pours from no mortal tongue- lis a legion of spirits who bear him. At the glow of eve their task was done, As his dust in the vale they were layincr. They needed no light of the lingering s°un, When a lustre from heaven was playing. No marble was there o'er his corse to flin«^. No warriors in armour attend him But the Cherubim's wing was his covering. And the Seraphim's sword did defend him. Softly he rests in his earthy home, With no mouldering stone to reward him, With the heavens alone his sepulchral dome, --xiiu me pen of the Lord to record him. BLANK VERSE. Satan to Beelzebub. Ir thou beest he — but oh, how fallen! how changed From him, who, in the happy realms of light, Clothed with transcendent brightness, did outshine Myriads though bright!— if he, whom mutual league, United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise, Join'd with me once, now misery hath join'd In equal ruin: into what pit thou seest, F^-om what height fallen; so much the stronger proved He with his thunder: and till then, who knew The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those, Nor what the potent Victor in his rage Can else inflict, do I repent or change- Though changed in outward lustre— that fix'd mind And high disdain from sense of injured merit, That with the Mightiest raised me to contend; And to the fierce contention brought along Innumerable io^ce of spirits arm'd. That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, His utmost power with adverse power opposed, In dubious battle on the plains of heaven, And shook his throne! What though the field be lost? All is not lost! the unconquerable will, And study of revenge; immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield; And what is else not to be overcome? — That glory never shall hia wrath or might Extort from me! To bow and sue for grace With suppliant knee, and deify his power. Who from the terror of this arm so late Doubted his empire! that were low indeed ! That were an ignominy, and shame beneath xuis uuwuiaii i since, oy rale, me strengtu oi gods And this empyreal substance cannot faili Since, through experience of this great event, BLANK VERSE. In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced. We may with more successful hope resolve io wage, by force or guile, eternal war, irreconcileable to our grand foe. Who now triumphs, and, in the excess of joy. bole reignmg, holds the tyranny of heaven ! 329 Milton, Satan's Reproof of Beelzebub, Fallen cherub ! to be weak is miserable. Doing or suffering; but of this be sure, lo do aught good never will be our task. But ever to do ill our sole delight, As being the contrary to his high will Whom we resist. If then bis providence Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, Uur labour must be to pervert that end, wv? ^^^^f ^°°^ ®*'" *^ ^"^ °^6ans of evil; Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb His inmost counsels from their destined aim. But see ! the angi^ Victor hath recall'd His ministers of vengeance and pursuit Back to the gates of heaven: the sulphurous hail. fe»hot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid The fiery surge, that from the precipice Of heaven received us falling; and the thunder. Wing d with red lightning and impetuous rage. Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn. Or satiate fury, yield it from our foe. Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, Ihe seat of desolation, void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid flames Oasts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend From off the tossing of these fiery waves: Inere rest, if any rest can harbour there-: And, re-assembling onr afflicted powers. Consult how we may henceforth most offend Our enemy; our own loss how repair; 830 BLANK VERSB. >d\ How overcome this dire calamity; What reinforcement we may gain from hope; If not, what resolution from despair. MUton, Satan Surveying the Horrors of Hell, ** Is this the region, this the soil, the clime." Said then the lost archangel, " this the seat That we must change for heaven; this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so ! since he, Who now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best. Whom reason hath equall'd, force hath made supreme, Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells 1 Hail, horrors, hail. Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell ! Receive thy new possessor-T*one, who brings A mind not to be changed by place or tisie. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same. And what I should be — all but less than he Whom thunder had made greater? Here at least We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, — will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven ! But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, The associates and co-partners of our loss, Lie thus astonish'd on the oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion; or once more With rallied arms, to try what may be yet Regain'd in heaven, or what more lost in hell?" Milton* Satan arousing his Legions, Princes! Potentates! Warriors ! the flower of heaven ! once yours, now lost — BLANK VERSE. If such astonishment as this can seize Eternal spirits— Or have ye chosen this place After the toil of battle to repose Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven? Or in this abject posture have ye sworn To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood, With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon His swift pursuers from heaven-gates discern The advantage, and, descending, tread us down Ihus drooping; or with linked thunderbolts Iransfix us to the bottom of this gulf ? Awake I arise ! or be for ever fallen! 831 Milton^ Description of the Fallen Angels Wandering through Hell, Thus, roving on In onfused march forlorn, the adventurous bands. With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast, View'd first their lamentable lot, and found No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale They passM, and many a region dolorous; O er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death! — A universe of death; which God by curse Created evil; for evil only good; Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things; Abominable, unutterable, and worse Than fables yet have feign'd, or fear conceived, Crorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire ! Milton, Evening in Paradise. Now came still evening on, and twilight grey ^ad in her sober livery ail things ciad; oilence accompanied; for beast and bird— They to their grassy couch, these to their nests "1 " 882 BLANK VERSE. Were slunk— all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung: Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rodo brightest, till the moon Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve: — "Fair consort! the hour Of night, and all things now retired to rest, Mind us of like repose; since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines Our eyelids: other creatures all day long Eove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest; Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity. And the regard of Heaven on all his ways; While other animals inactive range. And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour, to reform Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green. Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown. That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth; Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth. Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease; Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adornM:— ** My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st. Unargued I obey; so God ordains. — God is thy law; thou, mine; to know no more, Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise! With thee conversing, I forget all time; All seasons, and their change-— all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn — her rising sweet, vTith charms of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads BLANK VERSE. 333 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth Alter soft showers; and sweet the coming on Uf grateful evening mild; then silent nighi, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:— But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; ^or grateful evening mild; nor silent night. With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon Or glitterin| star-light, without thee, is sweet!" Milton. Satan's Address to the Sun. THOU, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, Look St from thy sole dominion like the god Of this new world!--at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads I— to thee I call But with no friendly voice, and add thy name. feun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams. That bring to my remembrance from what state 1 tell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down. Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King. Ah! wherefore? he deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was. In that bright eminence; and with his good Upraided none; nor was his service hard. What could he less than to afford him praise The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks. How due! yet all his good proved ill in me. And wrought but malice; lifted up so high, Idisdam'd subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment qu^t Ihe debt immense of endless gratitude— So burdensome still paying, still to owe! Forgetful what from him I still received; _-..., ujs-jciotvuu iiuj, iiiui a giaieiui mind By owing owes not, but still pays at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then? d34 BLANK VEBSU. OhI had his powerful destiny ordain'd Me some inferior angel, J had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power As great, might have aspired; and me, thouglt mean^ Drawn to his part: but other Powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken; from within Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? Thou hadst: whom hast thou, then, or what to accuse But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? Be, then, his love accursed! since, love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe! Nay, cursed be thou ! since, against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I fly infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell! myself am hell! And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep, Still threatening to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven! Oh, then, at last relent! is there no place Left for repentance? none for pardon left? None left but by submission: and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue-— The Omnipotent! Ah me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain; Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of hell. With diadem and sceptre high advanced. The lower still I fall; only supreme In misery. — Such joy ambition finds! But say I r u\d repent, and could obtain, By act of grace, my former state — how soon Would height recall high thoughts; how soon unsay What feign'd submission swore! Ease would reca^it Vows made in pain, as violent and void; ^^ —^ . A „_«1-^^^_^A f ur liXiVyii' uuii irUo r@CuitCil€u.i€uS ^lOw Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep — BLAKK TEB8E. 93$ Which would but lead rae to a worse relapse And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear Short intermission bought with double smarti This knows my punisher; therefore as far From granting, he— as 1, from begging peace! All hope excluded thus, behold, instead Of us outcast I exiled! his new delight, Mankind created, and for him this world. So, farewell hope! and with hope, farewell fear! Farewell remorse! all good to me is lost. Evil, be thou my good! by thee, at least Divided empire with heaven's King I holdj By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As man ere long, and this new world, shall know! Milton, Adam's Account of Himself with regard to his Crea- tion. Foe man to tell how human life began, B hard; for who himself beginning knew? Desire with thee still longer to converse Induced me. As new-waked from soundest sleep. Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid. In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun Soon dned, and on the reeking moisture fed. Straight towards heaven my wondering eyes I turned. And gazed awhile the ample sky; till, raised ° By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright «mI^/° »»y ^e«t- About me round I saw Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains. And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these, Creatures that lived and moved, and walk'd or flew Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled; With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflow'd! Myself I then perused, and limb by limb Survey'd and sometimes went, and sometimes fm With supple joints, as lively vigour led: But who I was, '-r where, or from what nauae. Knew not. To speak I tried, and forthwith spake; My tongue obey'd and readily could name Hi 836 BLANK VKRgB. Whatever I saw. *' Thou sun," said I, " fair light! And thou, enl'ghten'd earth 1 so fresh and gay; Ye hills and dales; ye rivers, woods, and plains; And ye that live and move, fair creatures! tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thusP—how here?" Ibid, Contest between Satan and Gabriel, ** Why hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed To thy transgressions, and diaturb'd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place — Employ'd, it seems, to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted herr in bliss?" To whom thus Satan, with contemptuous brow: ** Gabriel, thou hadst in heaven the esteem of wise. And such I held thee: but this question ask'd Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain? "Who would not, finding way, break loose from hell, Though thither doom'd? Thou would'st thyself, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, wliere thou niight'st hope to change Torment with case, and soonest recompense Dole with delight; which in this place I sought; To thee no reason, who know'st only good, But evil hast not tried: and wilt object His will who bound us? Let him surer bar His iron gates, if he intends our stay In thai ark durance Thus much what was ask'd, The rest is true; they found me where they say; But that implies uot violence or harm." Thus he in scorn. The warlike angel moved, Disdainfully half-smiling, thus replied: "Oh! loss of one in heaven to judge of wise, Since Satan fell, whom folly overthrew! And now returns him from his prison 'scaped, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise v^f not, wno asK what boldueas brought him hither, Unlicensed from his bounds in hell prescribed; So wise he judges it to fly from pain, BLANK VERSE. However, and to 'scape his punishment, fcjo judge thou still presumptuous! till the wrath. Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight fc^venfold, and scourge that wisdom back to hell Which taught thee yet no better-that no pain ^an equal anger infinite provoked I But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all hell broke loose? Is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled? or .hou than they Less hardy to endure? Courageous chief I The first in flight from paini hadst thou alle. d i o thy deserted host this cause of flight. Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive." Not that I less endure, or shrii ' from painf Insulting angel! well thou know'st I stood Ihy fiercest, w^^en in battle to thy aid The blasting voUied thunder made all speed. And seconded thy else not-dreaded spear. But still thy words at random, ais before. Argue thy inexperience what behoves, *rom hard essays and ill successes past, A faithful leader; not to hazard all rhrough ways of danger by himself untried; h therefore— I alone I— first un lertook 10 wing the desolate abyss, and spy This new created world, whereof in hell t&me IS not silent, here in hopn to find Better abode, and my aflEIicted Powers ' iu ®®*?.'® ^*^^« o" earth, or in mid air— 1 hough for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay legions dare against: Whose easier business were to serve their Lord High up in heaven, with songs to hymn his throne, And practised distances to cringe— not fight!" ro whom the warrior-angel soon replied: 10 say, and straight unsay— pretending first Wise to fly pam. professing next the spy- Argues no leader, but a lin- traced, ■' -i"u wuiuoc tnou ittiiuiui add! u name! U sacred name of faithfulness profaned! l^aithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? 337 338 BLANK VERSE. Army of fiends! fit body to fit head I Was this your discipline and faith engaged, Your military obedience, to dissolve > :f. i Allegiance to the acknowledged Power supreme? And thou, sly hypocrite! who now vvouldst seem Patron of liberty, who moi-e than thou Once fawn'd, and cringed, and servilely adored Heaven's awful Monarch? — wherefore, but in hope To dispossess Him, and thyself to reign? But mark what I arread thee now — Avaunt! Fly thither whence thou fledd'st. If from this hour Within these hallow'd limits thou appear. Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chain'd And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn The facile gates of hell, too slightly birr'd." So threaten'd he; but Satan to no threats Gave heed; but, waxing more in rage, replied: " Then when I am thy captive, talk of chains, Proud limitary cherub ! but, ere then, Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though heaven's King Ride on thy wings, and thou, with thy compeers — Used to the yokel — draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the road of heaven star-paved." While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright Turn'd fie.y red, sharpening in mooned horns Their phalanx, and began to hem him round With ported spears, as *hick as when a field Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, waving bends Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind Sways them; the careful ploughman doubting stands, Lest on the thrashing-floor his hopeful sheaves Prove chafi". On the other side, Satan, alarm'd, Collecting all hfs might, dilated stood. Like Teneriffe or Atlas, unremoved: His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest Sat horror plumed; nor wanted in his grasp What seem'd b^th spear and siiield. Now dreadful deeds Might have ensued? Not only Paradise, In this commotion, but the starry cope Of heav*'- perhaps, or all the elements At least, had gone to wreck, disturb'd and torn BLANK VERSE. 339 With violence of this confliVf h^A x The Eternal, ,o pr^^lTJ^^r^^rLT JMtwixt Astrea and the Scorpion siVn Wherein all things created fir« he ^e%h'd_ The penduloas round earth with baranf^^^ The .e,„e. e":rof7irVn^7n T4r -*''' Whlh p'k^ -'f "P. "«"• ""-J kiok'd tho beam- " Sata^ lT„' 'P^L"^' "»■' '«»P»''« the S: ThaX;t^rjitrnt°L?'°™..*'-'"- - »- To trample " ee a, m re fo^n.!! f'Tf •'°"'''*<' "o" When' '"^ "" '"" » cek^ 'aCf "'" Where^hou art weigh'd, and showf hW light, ho. Munnunng, and with hin. fled^Te^h^Je^'^f ni^^t. _ Milton. Ti. Good Preacher .nd the CUrical C^comb would I df scribe a preacher, such as Paul In d<«trme uncorrupt, in' bnlnag'^Xn? r^ P'T" •? ."»"'"'■•• Decent, solemn, "h«5te And natural ,n gesture. Much imprcss'd Himself, as conscious of his awfurchZf And anxious, .nainly, that the fl«k h/fwds May feel ,t too. Affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well h«^ml. Behold the pieturel_l8 it like?-like whom? Ind ther.'skVnT"'" ""'r^""' "''"^-k P. nu tnen-skip down again? pronounce a text| 340 BLANK VERSE. Cry, hem ! and, revL^'mg what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, uddle up their work, And, with a well-bred whisper, close the scene? In man or woman — but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar — in my soul I loathe All affectation: 'tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust. What ! will a man play tricks— will he indulge A silly, fond conceit of his fair form And just proportion, fashionable mien And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on liis lily hand; And play his brilliant i ".rts before my eyes. When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks h'<* Maker; prostitutes and shames His noble office; and, instead of truth. Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. Therefore, avaunt ! all attitude and stare. And start theatric, practised at the glass ! I seek divine simplicty in him Who handles things divine; and all beside. Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes, and judgments ill-form'd, To me la odious. Couper. On the Being of a God. KETiRBf— the world shut out;— thy thoughts call home! Imagination's airy wing repress; Lock up thy senses;— let no passion stir; — Wake all to Reason;— let her reign alone:— Then in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, As I have done; and shall inquire no more. Ill Nature's channel, thus the questions run. What am I? and from whence? I nothing know, "n.-A a1.^a. T ^.m . ^m*A a2m^a T ntvh /i/\'rt/«1iina Something eternal. Had there e'er been nought. Nought still hf i been: eternal there must be. But what eternal?— Why not human race; BLANK VERSB. 341 And Adam's ancestors without an end? That's hard to be conceived; since every link Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail: Can every part depend, and not the whole? Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise: I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. Whence earth, and these bright orbs ?— eternal too?— Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs Would want some other father. Much design Is seen in all their motions, all their makes. Design implies intelligence and art: That can't be from themselves—or man; that art Man scarce can comprehend, couW man bestow? And nothing greater, yet allcw'd, than man.— Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, Shot through vast masses of enormous weight? Who bade brute matter's restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly? Has matthi' innate motion? then, each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form a universe of dust. Has matter none? then, whence these glorious forms. And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed? Has matter more than motion? Has it thought, Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd In mathematics? Has it framed such laws, Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal?— If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, Who think a clod inferior to a man ! If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct — And that with greater far than human skill, Reside not in each block;— a Godhead reigns.- And, if a God there is, that God how great ! Dublin Bay—Shipwreck— 'Deserted Passengers, How beautifully still is all around I Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye \ji iuiann iiiuOCciice, ii'i deep repose These sandy ridges and the waters sleep, WrappM in the golden eflluence of day. 342 BLANK VERSE. Far diflferent the scene, when wintry windi Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell The attractive moon has call'd around her throne The congregated doods. Th^'n roars the might Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam; The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge Rolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven, That they are not at sea. Yet Memory weeps- That night'3 sad horrors, when a luckless bark ; "Was hurl'd upon these sands. Elate with hope,.. Some hundred warrior*^ who in many a field Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew, Each spell of country, with mngnetio poww, (Wrought in their souls, and all the joys of home r Rush'd on thdr fsancy. Some, in thought, emb?«oe4)j Their happy parents, and the lover clasp'd ; His fair one to his breast. Another morn, And all these joys are real I Onward speed, Thou flaet-wing'd bark! More fleet than sea-bird nkm%. The floods, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose:-—* Howth glimmer'd in the west, and Wicklow's hilla r Were blue in the horizon. Then they hail'd Their own green island, and they chanted loud Their patriot gratulations, till the sun Gave them his last farewell. He sank ia clouds Of red portentous glare; when dreary night Condensed around them, and a mountain swell Announced the coming tempest. Wrapp'd in sleet* And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast Smote sore; — yawn'd the precipitous abyss; — Roar'd the torn surges. — From his slippery stand, In vain the pilot cast a wistful look, Some friendly light to ppy;— -but all was dark; Nor moon, nor star, nor beacon lifrht, was seen ; While in the yeasty foam, half-buriod, toil'd The reeling ship. At length, that dreadful sound Which mariners most dread — tbe fierce, wild din Of breakers,— raging on the leeward shore, Appall'd the bravest. On th ; ,mda she struck, BLANK VERSE. 343 Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp Of dissolution. Agonizing screams Were heard within, which told that hope was fled. Then might some counsel s!t*\i', when it shall please my country to need my death, Suakspeare. HamleCs Soliloquy on Death, To be— or not to be?— that is tlie queition.- Whether 'tis i>obler in the mind, +0 suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, No more!— and, by a sleep, to say we end The heert-ache, and t!^ thousand natural phocki 352 PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep — To sleep? — perchance to dream! — ay, there's the rub! For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may comej When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. — There's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthv takes — When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who wouH fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death — That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne No traveller returns! — puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have. Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus, conscience does make cowarus of us all: And thus, the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry. And lose the name of action ! Shakspeare Mark Antony's Oration. Friends, Romans, Countrymen! lend me your ears, I come to bury Caasar, not to praise him. The evil that men do, lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones: So let it be with Caesar! — The noble Brutus Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious — If it was so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Ccesar answer'd it! Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest— For Brutus is an honourable roan! So are they all ! ail honourable men — Come I to speak in Csesar's funeral. PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 353 He was my friend, faithful and just to me — But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man! He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Ctesar seem ambitious? "When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. Ambition should be made of sterner stuffi — Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; \nd Brutus is an honourable man! You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown. Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? — Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honourable man! I speak, not to disprove what Brutus spoke; But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once; not without cause: "What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! — Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar; And I must pause till it come back to me ! But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world — now lies he there. And none so poor as do him reverence! masters ! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and mhids to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, f»nd Cassius wrong. Who, you all kn( 7, are hor.jurable men I — I will not u" thenk r'rong: I rather choose To wrong 'he deo'l, to wrong myself and you, Th^n I will .V V 'g such honourable men ! — Bui here's a pr .chment with the serd of Caesar — I foui; J it in his closet — 'tis his will ! Lei h-A *' Q cohimons hear his testament-— Whioh, pare n me, I do not mean to read, — And they w'il go aid kiss dead Coeaar's wounds^ And di( i leir ; COMIC PIECES. 359 " And ni be sworn, that when youVe seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." " well then at once to end the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'» He said; then full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo! — 'twas white. Merrick. The Three Black Crows. Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Stra7*c2- One took the other briskly by the hand; *' Hark ye," said he, " 'tis an odd story this About the crows!"—" I don't know what it is," Replied his friend. "No! I'm surprised at that; Where I come from, it is the common chat; But you shall hear an odd affair indeed ! And that it happen'd they are all agreed: Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, wio lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, Taking a vomit, threw up Three Black Crows!" <« Impossible!" " Nay, but 'tis really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you." " From whose I pray?" So having named the man Straight to inquire, his curious comrade ran. " Sir, did you tell?" relating the aflltiir. " Yes, sir, I did; and, if 'tis worth your care, *Twas Mr." — such a one— "who told it me; But, by the bye, 'twas Two black crows, not Three! Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Quick to the third the \irtuoso went. " Sir,"— -and so fori...— "Why, yes; the thing is fact, Tnough in regard to number not exact: It was not Two black crows, 'twa? only One; The truth of that you may depend upon; The gentleman himself told rce the case." — " Wheic may I find him?"— ''Why, in»»_g,,nl, Away he went, and having found him ou " Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." — B rkla/tA I 360 COMIC PIECES. Then to his last informant he referrM, And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard: " Did you sir, throw up a black crow?"—" Not II"— *' Bless me ! — how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and One\ And here, I find, all comes at last to None ! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" " Crow — crow — perhaps I might; now I recall The matter over." — ** And pray, sir, what was't?" " Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, Some thing that was as blacky sir, as a crow." Dr, Byrom. Contest between the Eyes and the J^Tose. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose: The spectacles set them unhappily wrong: The point to dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig-full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat t b-ilance the laws, So famed for his talent ir .cely discerning. <* In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, "Your lordship observes they are made with straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose-—- 'Tis a case that has happened and may be again — That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could wear spectacles then? On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them." a COMIC PIECES. 361 Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, He pleaded again in bohalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or huU That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on— By day-light or candle-light— Eyes should be shut. The Charitable Barber. A SCHOLAR of that race, whom oft we meet. Hungry and friendless, wandering through the street. Though bless'd with ,afts, life's noblest scenes to grace. Was forced, through want, to seek a tutor's place, At length, when pining in extreme distress. The starving wretch was led to hope success, And got a sudden summons to repair Before the guardians of a titled heir: In Phoebus' livery dress'd from top to toe, Our wit in this dire plight was loathe to go; His hat, an hostler for a sieve might use. His wig was bald, his toes peep'd through his shdes^ His hose through many a rent display'd his skin. And a beard three weeks old adorn'd his chin- With such a Hebrew phiz, he felt 'twas clear,* JNo Christian tutor ought to face a peer. Much he desired to shave it: but, alas \ Our wit was minus razor, soap, and glass; And what the barbed sage esteem'd still worse. Had nought to fee the barber in his purse. In this dilemma, cursing parse and beard, At many a barber's shop lie anxious leer'd; Hoping some shaver's countenance to find, That spoke a feeling heart and liberal mind. At length he spied an artisan, whose face Bespoke compassion for man's suffering race. Bleeding with wounded pride at every°pore,' Our shamefaced scholar, trembling, opes the door: • xiie waruer greets him with a smirking air, Bows to the ground, and then presents a chair. Q I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V. %> ^ ^ // .// / y. % m. 1.0 I.I 1.25 Vi.K^ 12.5 I2f ^ IIS SiS llliio lU 1.4 1.6 ^/ V. V} A *!/*, ''J- ^ "^ '•# ■'/ PhotogTdphic Sciences Corporation €3 4 If all their customers resembled you: I like your modesty; but good my spark. The number of this house in future mark; For, not to mince the matter and be nice, I never gratis shave a beggar twice." — No towel, soap, nor night -cap, now appear'd. The churl with cold pump-water dabs his beard, Selects an old notch'd razor from his case, And v/ithout mercy flays the scholar's face: Though at each rasp his chin was drench'd with gore. His lot, the stoic, uncomplaining, bore; For to poor wits the privilege belongs, With resignation to support their wrongs "Just then the barber's cat, in theft surprised. Was by the shopman wofuUy chastised ; Puss, who less patience than the bard possess'd, In piercing cries, her agony express'd: — The barber, sulky and displeased before, No^T at his shopman like a trooper swore, And with a Stentor's voice the cook-maid calls, To know from whence proceed those hideouo squfllls:— " 'Tis doubtless," cried the wit, with great hilarity, ** Some poor cat, by your shopman, shaved /or Charityr Jones, come PIECES. 363 Law, Law is law — law is law; and as in such and so forth and hereby, and aforesaid, provided always, neverthe- less, notwithstanding. Law is like a country dance, people are led up and down in it till they are tired. Law is like a book of surgery, there are a great many desperate cases in it. It is also like physic, they that take least of it are best off. La^v is like a homely gen- tlewoman, very well to follow. Law is also like a scolding wife, very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion, people are bewitched to get into it: it is also like bad weather, most people are glad when they get out of it. We shall now mention a cause, called " Bullum vcr- sus Boatum:" it was a cause that came before me. The cause was as follows. There were two farmers: farmer A. and farmer B. Farmer Ac was seized or possessed of a bull: farmer B. was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a post on shore, with a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion, or, as we say, vulgo vocaloy a hay-band. After he had made his boat fast to a post on shore; as it was very natural for a hungry man to do, he went up town to dinner: farmer A.'a bull, as it was very nat^iral for a hungry bull to do, came down town to look for a din- ner; and, observing, discovering, seeing, and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferry-boat, the bull scrambled into the ferry-boat; he ate up the tur- nips, an to make aa end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-band: the boat, being eaten from iti moorings, floated down the river, with the bull in it: it struck against a rock; beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard: whereupon the owner of the bull brought his action against the boat, for running away with the bull: the owner of the boat brought his action against the bull, for running away with the boat: And thus notice of trial was given, Bullum versus Boatum, Boatum versus Bulhim. Now the counsel for the bull began with saying: " My lord, and you gentleoien of the jury, we are counsel 364 COMIC PIECES. in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard of running horses,. but never of running bulls, before. Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with the boat, than a man in a coach may be said to run away with the horses; therefore my lord, how can we punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what is not eatable? Or how can we drink what is not drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think on what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are counsel in this cause for the bull; if the jury should bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a The counsel for the boat observed, that the bull should be nonsuited; because, in his declaration, he had not specified what colour he was of; for thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel! — " My lord, if the bull was of no colour, he must be of some colour; and, if he was not of any colour, what colour could the buH be of?" I oveiTuled this motion myself, by ob- serving, the bull was a white bull, and that white is no colour: besides, as I told my brethren, they should not tro*ible their heads to talk of colour in the la ,v, for the law cancolour anything. This cause being afterwards left to a reference, upon the award, both bull and bout were acquitted; it being proved, that the tide of the river carried them both away: upon which, I gave it as my opinion, that, as the tide of the river carried both bull and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action against the water-bailiff. My opinion being taken, an action was issued; and, open the traverse, this point of law arose: How, whereforej and whether, why, when, and what, what- soever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not acom- poamanHs evidenoe, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled, by Boatum's attorney declaring, that, for his client, he would swear any thing* The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record, in true law Latin; which set forth, in their declaration, that they were carried •iwy either by tbe tid« of flood, or th« tide of ebb. COMIC PIECES. 266 The charter of the water-bailiff was as follows: *ffqu(B bailiffi est 'tnagistratus in c/ioisi super omnibus Jishibus qui habuerunt Jinnos et scalos^ claws, shelis, et tafos, qui swimmare in freshibuSy vel saltibus riveriSy lakis, ponclis, canalibus, et well boats \ sivs oysteri^ prawniy whitini, shrimpiy turbutus solus; that is, not turbots alone, Jut turbots and soles both together. But now corned the nicety of the law; the law is as nice as a new-laid egg, and not to be understood by addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling; but it being proved, that they were carried away neither by the tide of flood, nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high watea*, they were nonsuited; but such was the lenity of the court, upon their paying all costs, they were illowed to begin again de novo. The J^ewcastle Apothecary, A MAN in many a country town we know Professing openly with Death to wrestle^ Entering the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. Yet some affirm, no enemies they are; But meet just like prize-fighters in a feirj Who first shake hands before they box. Then give each other plaguy knocks. With all the love and kindness of a brother. So, — many a sufi^ring patient saitli, — Though the apothecary fights with Death, Still they are sworn friends to one another. A member of this ^sculapian line, Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: No man could better gild a pill; Or make a bill; Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter scandal by your bed ; Or spread a plaster. Of occupations, these were quantum stiff: Tet itill he thought the list not long enough; 366 COMIC PIECES. And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to*t. This balanced things; for, if he hurl'd A few score mortals from the world, He made amends by bringing others into't His fame, full six miles round the country ran, In short, in repuiation he was solus/ All the old women call'd him " a fine man!" His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, though in trade^ —Which oftentimes will genius fetter, Read works of fancy, it is said, And cultivated the Belles Lettres. And why should this be thought so odd? Can't men have taste that cure a phthisic? Of poetry though patron god, 'Apollo patronises physic. Bolus loved versei- and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't; No opportunity he e'er let pass Of writing the directions on his labels, In dapper couplets— like Gay's Fables, Or rather like the lines in Hudibras. Apothecary's verse!— and where*s the treason? 'Tis simple honest dealing; — not a crime: When patients swallow physic without reason, It it but fair to give a little rhyme. He had a patient lying at death's door. Some three miles from the town— -it might be four; To whom one evening Bolus sent an article— In pharmacy, that's called cathartical; And on the label of the stuff. He wrote this verse; Which one should think was clear enough, And terse: *• When taken, To be well shaken.** Next morning early, Bolus rose; And to the patient's house he goei Upon his pad, COMIC PIECES. 367 Who a vile trick of stumbling had: It was indeed a very sorry hackj But that*.' of course; For what's expected from a horse, With an apothecary on his back? Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap, Between a single and a double rap. — Knocks of this kind Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance; By fiddlers, and by opera-singers: One loud, and then a little one behind, As if the knocker fell, by chance Out of their fingers. — The servant let him in with dismal face, Long as a courtier's out of place — Portending some disaster: John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim, As if the apothecary had physick'd him, And not his master. Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head. "Indeed? — hum! — ha! — that's very odd. He took the draught?" — John gave a nodi * " Well — how ? — What then ? — Speak out you dur ^«^ I" " Why then,'' says John, " we shook him once." " Shook him! — how?" Bolus stammer'd out. « We jolted him about." ** Zounds! shake a patient, man — a shake won't do." " No, sir — and so we gave him two." "Two shakes! — odds curse! " 'Twould make the patient worse." " It did so, sir — and so a third we tried." "Well, and what then?" — "Then, sir, my master died!" Caiman. The Three Warnings, The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years $68 COMIC FIECB8. So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages^ The greatest love of life appears. This strong affection to believe, Which all confess, but lew perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room. And looking grave, « You must," says he, " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'* " With you !" and quit my Susan's side! " With you!" the hapless husband cried: i « Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard: Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared; My thoughts on other matters' go; This is my wedding-night, you know." What more he urged, I have not heard; His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer. Yet, calling up a serious look. His hour-glass trembled while he spoke: "Neighbour," he said, "farewell: no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have, Before you're summon'd to the grave: Willing for once, I'll quit my prey. And grant a kind reprieve; In hopes you'll have no more to say; But when I call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented. COMIC PIECES. 369 What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wisely well; How roundly he pursued his course. And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse The willing rouse shall tell: He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold. Nor once perceived his growing old, Nor thought of Death as near; His friends not false, his wife no shrew; Many his gains, his children few. He pass'd his smiling hours in peace; And still h« view'd his wealth increase. While thus, along life's dusty road, The beaten track content he trod. Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares. Brought on his eightieth year — When, lo! one night in musing mood, As all alone he sat, The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half kilPd with anger and surprise, *< So soon returned ?" old Dobson cries. " So soon, do you call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest; Since I was here before, 'Tis six and thirty years at least. And you are now fourscore.'' " So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; " To spare the aged would be kind: Besides, you pi-omised me Three warnings Which I have look'd for, nights and morni ghts And for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages." mornings " I know, ' says Death, " that, at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length, Trrm irwrr *\i. t-tsvruciii 92 370 COMIC PIECES. " Hold/' says the farmer, " not so fastj I have been lame these four years past.'' " And no great wonder ," Death replies: " However you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms may make amends." *' Perhfips, says Dobson, " so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight." " This is a shocking tale, in truth; But there's some comfort still," says Death: " Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant, you h^ar all the news." " There's none," he cries; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." " Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind You have your three sufficient warnings; So come along, no more we'll part:" He said and touch 'd him with his dart; And now old Dobson, turning pale. Yields to his fate. — So ends my tale I The Razor- Seller. A FELLOW, in a market-town. Most musical cried razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap. As every man would buy, with cash and senscj. A country bumpkin the great offer heard:' Poor Hodge! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard, That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose, With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid. And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, " This rascal stole the razors, 1 suppose! " No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave: It sartinly will be a monstrous prize.'* COMIC PIECES, 871 So, home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul content. And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grab, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor! — then the rest he tried — All were impostors—" Ah!" Hodge sigh", "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!* In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces. He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd, and swore; Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made wry And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er! [faces His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with ciinch'd clttvn, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a damn'd confounded dog! Not fit to scrape a hog!" , *m, and began-— ] 'tis fun, ■ eir lives: ubbi ng, irubbing. Hodge sought the fellow- " Perhaps Master Razor-i *• . That people flay themst • - You rascal! for an hour hu Giving my scoundrel whiskti-. With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah ! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave." " Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I am no knave: As for the razors you have bought, Upon ray soul, I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave?" quoth Hodge, with wondering And voice not m»ich unlike an Indian yell: [eyes "What were they made for then, you dog!" he cries. «* Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,—" to sell.» Pindar, 872 COMIC PIECES. The Case Mtered. Hodge held a farm, and smiled content, While one year paid another's rent; But If he ran the least behind, Vexation stung his anxious mind; For not an hour would landlord stay. But seize the very quarter day. How cheap soe'er or scant the grain, Though urged with truth, was urged in vain. The same to him, if false or true; For rent must come v hen rent was due. Yet that same landlord's cows and steeds Broke Hodge's fence, and cropp'd his meads. In hunting that same landlord's hounds Se! how they spread hia new-sown grounds ! Dog, horse, and man, alike o'erjoyed. While half the rising crop's destroy 'd; Yet tamely was ^he loss sustain'd. 'Tis said the sufferer once complained: The Squire laughed loudly while he spoke, And paid the bumpkin— with a joke. But luckless, still poor Hodge's fate: His worship's bull had forced a gate. And gored his cow, the last and best; By sickness he had lost the rest. Hodge felt at heart resentment strong The heart will feel that suffers long. A thought that instant took his head, And thus within himself he said: " If Hodge for once, don't sting the Squire, May people post him for a liar!" He said — across his shoulder throws His fork, and to his landlord goes. •' ^tJ'^ »°«Pt'-« «'««• eartl and air, and sea, miXVer* "° "^'''^ *'""^' ''^'"*' °°"^ ^"' «>'"« And Srth^^An'*"'''! '^n'-'*' ^^''^' F'^ ™«"*'^b» ^''h alarm. ThI. h!-.». 1 *"*''«"*':"i''"g: voice, the storm has grown a calm lain hearts the hom« of eooUmrm «,i,:«u 'u, .^ ^^»'«uj This breast has throbb'd with passions which ne'eVr^ck'dl rn^ii.!'. These feet hare trod forbidden ground, »nd tr»yert'd 'mid the MISCELLANEOUS. 377 And must I yield this power now and die as mortals die? Was it for this I sold myself to work the works of hell? To shatter fleets and armies with my talisraanic spell. Was it for this I sought to sway an empire wide and vast? To die at length as others die, and sink to earth at last! Death, death — thou sly intruder, thou shapeles, viewless thing, Might I but meet thee face to face, Ihi* arm should crush thy sting; I would measure lances with thee, nor tremble at the fight, Might I as plainly see thy form, as now I feel thy might; In vain have men or angels sought my power to overtVirow, I've langh'd them all to scorn, and must ihis arm be vanq. ah'd now? The frown of the Eternal One ne'er made this brow grow pale; I have defied the monarch, shall his vassal make me quail? No, give me back my sceptre! — but what's this dims ray eye? Hero take my bold defiance, Death! — but God of henven, I die! Give me my talismanic wand; what is this stays my breath? I never yielded yet, and must, — my curse be on ye, T>eathl Prepare to do my bidding, fiends who round my pillow float; Conquer 1 must — but hold, — I feel death's rattles in my throat!" Then starting from his couch he rush'd along with frantic stride. And shouting with a rjighty voice — "I will not die!" hk died! B. B. Wale, Arnold Winkelried, " Make way for liberty!" he cried.-— Made way for liberty, and died. It must not be; this day, this hour, Annihilate's the oppressor's power I All Switzerland is in the field. She will not fly, she cannot yield — She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host. And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm hung victory. It did depend on one indeed; Behold him — Arnold Winkelried I There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood, amid the throng, In rijminnliQn de«ii a^d 1q»i«t Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And by the motion of his form, I 378 MISCELLANEOUS. Anticipate the bursting gtorm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 'twas no sooner thought than done! The field was in a moment won ; — ** Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran with arms extended wide. As if his dearest friend to clasp; — Ten spears he swept within his grasp; *• Make way for liberty!" he cried, Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed among them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty. Swift to the breach his comrades fly, " Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, (As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all. An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow. Thus Switzerland again was free ; Thus death made way for liberty ! Montgomery, Casablanca. The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the bottle's wreck. Shone round him o'er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood. As born to rule the storm; — A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father's word; — That father, faint in death, below, ziis voice no longer heard. He called aloud, " Say, father, say If yet my task is done!" — I,i lilSCKLLANEOUS. 879 He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. ** Speak, ftithar!" once again he cried, " If I may yet be gone !" — And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, " My father ! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild; They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound; — The boy— oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, — With must and helm, and pennon fair. That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart. Mrs. Remans, Landing of the Pilgrims, The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed; XXI2U t!it; tfcarj jis^ssv 2iu:sg uaFtk The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. I ^^^ MISCBLLANJBOUS. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came — Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the %ing come. In silence and in fear-— They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam. And the rocking pines of the forest roared; i This was their welcome home I There were men with hoary hair Amid that pilgrim band — Why had they come to wither thwe, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground. The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found- Freedom to worship God! Mrs. Hemant, The Burial of Arnold. xa. vij, guirierea ro your piuce oi prayer. With slow and measured tread: Your ranks are full, your mates all there— But the soul of one has fled. MlSOBl.LANSOtTK He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all; "Why lies he at that tearful length. And ye around his pall? Ye reckon it in dayp, since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, And his lip v/reathed with a smile. Oh I had it been but told you then, To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped meny Would ye have singled himf Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung Defiance to the ring? Whoso laugh of victory loudest rung, Yet not for glorying? Whose heart in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming noti There lies he — go and look ! On now — his requiem is done; The last deep prayer is sai(i;— On to his burial, comrades — on, With the noblest of the dead I Slow — for it presses heavily;— It is a man ye bear 1 Slow — for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades! — ye have laid His dark locks on his brow — Like life — save deeper light and shade: — We'll not disturb them now. Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, That blue veined eyelid's sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull, — Its slumber we will keep. EAflf Wi^tmy T 111 a ii-\iitinii«pinn Your feet are on his sod; — Death's chain is on your champion- He waiteth here his God! I 382 MISCELLANEOUS. Ay,-— turn and weep,— 'tis manliness To be heart-broken here, — For the grave of eartn's best nobleness Is watered by the tear. milis. The Mariner^s Dream, In slumbers of midnight the Sailor boy lay, His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind, He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While Memory stood side-ways, half-covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn. Then Fancy her magic&l pinions spread wide. And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise; Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch. And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch. And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bende o'er him with looks of delight, His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse— all his hardships seem o*er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest •» O God! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more." Ah I whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah I what is that sound that now larnms his ear? 'lis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere ! 3IISCBLLANB0US. 383 He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck; Amazement confronts him with images dire; — Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck, The mnsts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire! Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell, In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; — Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the Deaih-Angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave. Oh, Sailor boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; — Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? Oh! Sailor boy! Sailor boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away. And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye — Oh, Sailor boy! Sailor boy! peace to thy soul! Dimond. 3S4 MISCELLANEOUS. DIALOGUES. Cato and Decius. Dec. Caesar senda health to Cato — Cato. Could he send it To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. Are not your orders to address the senate? Dec. My business is with Cato: Caesar sees The straits to which youVe driven: and, as he knows Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life. Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. Tell your dictator this; and ♦ell him, Cato Disdains a life which he has power to offer. Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Csesar; Her (generals and her consuls are no more, Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs; Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend. Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged, forbid it. Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate And reason with you, as from friend to friend: Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, And threatens every hour to burst upon it. Still nvay you stand high in your country's honoM;' Do but comply, and make your peace with Ctesar,— Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato, As on the second of mankind. Cato, No more; I must not think of life on such conditions. Dec. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues, And therefore sets this value on your life. Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship. And name your terms. Cato. Bid him disband his legions, Restore the commonwealth to liberty. Submit his actions to the public censure, And siaud the judgment of a Roman senate.— Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom— mALOGUSS. 385 Calo. Nay, more — though Cato's voice was ne'er em- To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, |]ployed Myself will mount the rostrum in his favor, And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 'j, Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror. Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. Dec. What is a Roman that is Caesar's foe? Cato. Greater than Caesar: he's a friend to virtue. Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, And at the head of you're own little senate; You don't now thunder in the capitol, With all the mouths of Rome to second you. Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither; 'Tis Csesars sword has made Rome's senate little, And thinned its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye Beholds this man in a false, glaring light. Which conquest and success have thrown upon him: Didst thou but view him right, tLou'dst see him black With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes That strike my soul with horror but to name them. I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes; But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds Should never buy me to be like that Caesar. Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cajsar For all his generous cares aud proffered friendship? Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain: Presumptuous man! the gods take care of Cato. Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul. Bid him employ his care for these my friends. And make good use of his ill-gotten power. By sheltering men much better than himself. Dec. Your high unconquered heart makes you forget You are a man; you rush on your destructifan..\p..\ *i * !__ _ .. ..St,, vttvtt-iiui njicuiicnuigB,- you mey bomeufiies named. 'Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery; And ever and anon they vowed revenge. DIALOGUES. 391 L. Ran. Defend us, gracious God! we are betrayed! They have found out the secret of thy birth ; It must be so. That is the great discovery. Sir Malcolm's heir is come to claim his own; And he will be revenged. Perhaps even now, Armed and prepared for murder, they but wait A darker and more silent hour to break Into the chamber where they think thou sleepest. This moment, this, H-aven hath ordained to save thee ! Fly to the camp, my son! Doug. And leave you here? No: to the castle let us go together, Call up the ancient servants of your house. Who in their youth did eat your father's bread ; Then tell them loudly that I am your son. If in the breasts of men one spark remains Of sacred love, fidelity, or pity, — Some in your cause will arm: 1 ask but few To drive those spoilers from my father's house. L. Ran. O Nature, Nature! what can check thy force! Thou genuine offspring of the daring Douglas! But rush not on destruction: save thyself, And I am safv.. To me they mean no harm; Thy stay but risks thy precious life in vain. That winding path conducts thee to the river; Cross where thou seest a broad and beaten way, Which, running eastward, leads thee to the camp. Instant demand admittance to Lord Douglas; Show him these jewels which his brother wore. Thy look, thy voice, will make him feel the truth, Which I, by certain proof, will soon confirm. Doriff. I yield me and obey: but yet my heart Bleeds at this parting. Something bids me stay, And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read Of wondrous deeds by one bold hand achieved Our foes are two; no more: let me go forth, L. Ran. If thou regardest thy mother, or reverest Thy father's memory, think of this no more. One thing I have to say before we part: 392 DIALOG UESr. Long wert thou lost; and thou art found, my child, In a most fearful season. War and battle I have great cause to dread. Too well I see Which way the current of thy temper sets; To-day I've found thee. Oh! my long-lost hope! If thou to giddy valour givest the rein, To-morrow I may lose my son for ever. The love of tli(^e, before thou sawest the light, Sustamed my life, when thy brave father fell. If thou shalt fall, I have nor love nor hope In this waste world! My son, remember me J Doug. What shall I say? how can I give you comfort? The God of battles of my life dispose. As may be best for you ! for whose dear sake I will not bear myself as I resolved. Butiyet consider, as no vulgar name That which I boast, it sounds 'mongst martial men; How will inglorious caution suit my claim? The post of tate, unshrinking, I maintain. My country's foes must witness who I am; On the invaders' heads I'll prove my birth. Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain. If m this strife I fall, blame not your son. Who, if he lives not honoured, must not live. L. Ran. I will not utter what my bosom feels Too well I love that valour which I warn. Farewell, my son! my counsels are but vain; And as high Heaven hath willed it, all must be. Home. Alberto's Exculpation. King. Art thou the chief of that unruly band Who broke the treaty and assailed the Moors? Youth. No chief, no leader of a band am I. The leader of a band insulted me. And those he led basely assailed my life; With bad success indeed. If self-defence Be criminal, O king! I have offended. King. With what a noble confidence he speaks? See what a spirit through his blushes breaks f Observe him, Ilamet. i.i DIALOGUES. 398 Harriet. I am fixed upon him. King. Didst thou alone engage a band of Moors, -■! And make such havock? Sure it cannot be. Recall thy scattered thoughts. Nothing advance Which proof may overthrow. Youth. What I have said No proof can overthrow. Where is the man, Who, speaking from himself, not from reports And rumours idle, will stand forth and say, I was not single when the Moors attacked me? Harriet. I will not be that man, though 1 confess That I came hither to accuse thee, youth And to demand thy punishment. — I brought The tale our soldiers told. Vouth. The tale was false. Hamct. I thought it true, but thou hast shook my faith. The Feal of ' uth is on thy gallant form, For none but cowards lie. King, Thy story tell, With every circumstance which may explain The seeming wonder; how a single man In such a strife could stand? Youth. 'Twill cease to be A wonder when thou hearest the story told. This morning, on my road to Oviedo, A while I halted near a Moorish post. Of the commander I inquired my way, And told my purpose; that I came to sec The famous combat. With a scornful smile, With taunting words and gestures ho replied, Mocking my youth; advised me to return Back to my fatlier's house, and in the ring To dance with boys and girls. He added too That I should see no combat: That no knight Of Spain durst meet the champion of the Moors. Incensed, I did indeed retort his scorn. The quarrel grew apace, and I detied him To a arr'jon hills which rose amid the nlairij An arrow's flight or farther from his post. Alone wo sped: alone we drew, we fought. The Moorish captain fell. Enraged, his men r2 3^ .^^H 894 DFALOGUES. Flew to revenge his death. Secure they cam© Each with his utmost speed. Those who came first. Single, I met and slew. More wary grown, The rest together joined, and all at once Assailed me. Then T had no hopes of Hfe» But suddenly a troop of Spaniards came And charged my foes, who did not long sustain The shock, but fled, and carried to their camp That false report which thou, king! hast heard. King. Now by my sceptre and my sword I swear Thou art a noble youth. An angel's voice Could not command a more implicit faith Than thou from me hast gained. What thinkest thou, Hamet, Is he not greatly wronged? Hamet By Allah! yes. The voice of truth and innocence is bold, And never yet could guilt that tone assume. I take my leave, impatient to return, And satisfy my friends that this brave youth Was not the aggressor. — King. I expect no less from generous Hamet. ~ Tell me, wondrous youth! [Exii, Hamet. For much I long to know, what is ♦hy name? Who are thy parents? Since the Moor prevailed. The cottage and the cave have oft concealed From hostile hate the noblest blood of Spain; Thy spirit speaks for thee. Thou art a shoot Of some illustrious stock, some noble house, Whose fortunes with their falling country fell. Youth. Alberto is my name. 1 draw my birth From Catalonia; in the mountains there My father dwells, and for his own domains Pays tribute to the Moor. He was a soldier: Oft I have heard him of your battles speak, or Cavadonga's and Olalle's field. But ever since I can remember aught, His chief employment and delight have been To train me to the use and love of arms: In martial PVPr^isa ura nnoaarl «Iiri rl»-.. Morning and evening, still the theme was war. He bred rae to endure the summer's heat DIALOGUE 395 And brave the winter's cold; to swim across The headlong torrent when the shoals of ice Drove down the stream; to rule the fiercest steeds That on our mountains run. No savage beast The forest yields that I have not encountered. Meanwhile my bosom beat for nobler game; I longed in arms to meet the foes of Spain. Oft I implored my father to permit me, Before the truce was made, to join the host. He said it must not be, I was too young For the rude service of these trying times. King. Thou art a prodigy, and fiUest the mind With thoughts profound and expectation high. When in a nation, humbled by the will Of Providence, beneath a haughty foe, A person rises up, by nature reared, Sublime, above the level of mankind; Like that bright bow the hand of the Most High Bends in the watery cloud: He is the sign Of prosperous change and interposing Heaven. Home. Alfred and Devon Returned SuccessfuL Alf. My friend returned I welcome, welcome! but what happy tidings Smile in thy cheerful countenance? — Dev. My li'3ge, Your troops have been successful. — But to Heaven Ascend the praise! For sure the event exceeds The hand of man. Jilf. How was it, noble Devon? Dev. You know my castle is not hence far distant. Thither I sped; and, in a Danish habit, The trenches passing, by a secret way Known to myself alone, emerged at once Amid my joyful soldiers. There I found A generous few, the veteran, hiudv gleanings Of many a hapless fight. They with a fierce Heroic fire inspirited each other; Resolved on death, disdaining to survive Their dearest country. — ♦' If we fall," I cried, 396 DIALOGUES. "Let us not tamely fall like cowards! "No: let us live—or let us die, like men! "Come on, my friends: to Alfred we will cut • " Our glorious way; or, as we nobly perish, "Will ojffer to the genius of our country " Whole hecatombs of Danes."— As if one soul Had moved them all, around their heads they flashed Their flaming falchions—" Lead us to those Danes! '^ Our country !— vengeance!"— was the general cry. Straight on the careless drowsy camp he rushed And rapid, as the flame devours the stubble. Bore down the heartless Danes. With this success Our enterprise increased. Not now contented To hew a passage through the flying herd. We unyemitting, urged a total rout. The valiant Hubba bites the bloody field. With} twice six hundred Danes around him strewed. Alf. My glorious friend! this action has restored Our sinking country. — But where, my noble cousin, are the rest Of our brave troops? Bev. On t'other side the stream. That half encloses this retreat, I left them. Roused from the fear, with which it was congealed As in a frost, the country pours amain. The spirit of our ancestors is up, The spirit of the free! and with a voice That breathes success, they all demand their king. Mf. Quick let us join them, and improve their ardour. We cannot be too hasty to secure The glances of occasion. Thomson. The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius. Cos. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this; You heve condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; TTiiuio^a my ieiieis, ^lu^iiig oii Ins side. Because I knew the man, were slighted of. Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a DIALOGUES. 397 Cas. In sucb a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I, an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech vv^ere else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore h'de its head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March re- member ! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villian touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? "What, shall one of us. That struck the foremost man in all this world. But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? And sell the mighty space of our large honours. For as much trash as may be grasped thus? — I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman, Cas. Brutus, bay not me, I'll not endure it: you forget yourself. To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say, you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to yo .n-'h choler? Shall I be frighted when a madma.. stares? Cas ye gods! ye gods! must 1 endure all this? Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret till your proud heart break ; 898 DULOaUES. Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Mnst I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, 1 11 use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear soj make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well: For mine own part I shall be glad to learn of noble men. ' Coj.You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus; I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did^I say better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him. *^ Cas. I durst not! Bru. No. Cas. What? durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love: I may do that I shall be sorry for. _Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;— ror I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions. Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Casaius so? DIALOGUES. 399 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 1o lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts. Dash him to pieces! Cos. I denied you not. Brti, You did. Cas. I did not: — he was but a fool That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived my heart; A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru, I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on'Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world: Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! — There is my dagger. And here my naked breast; within, a heart, Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou did'st at CsBsar; for I know, "When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Bru. Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, showa u hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived 400 DIALOG UKS. To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, or blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. O Brutus! — Bru. What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother crave me' Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth. When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Shahespeure. Orestes Delivering His Embassy to Pytrhus. Orest. Before I speak the message of the Greeks, Permit me, sir, to glory in the title Of their ambassador; since I behold Troy's vanquisher, and great Achilles' son. Nor does the son rise short of such a father: If Hector fell by him, Troy fell by you. But what your lather never would have done, You do. You cherish the remains of 'Iroy; And, by an ill-*imed pity, keep alive The dying embers of a ten-years' war. Have you so soon forgot the misihty Hector? The Greeks remember his high-brandished sword, That filled their states with widows and with orphans ; For which they call for vengeance on his son. Who knows what he may one day prove? Who knows But he may brave us in our ports; and filled With Hector's fury, set our fleets on blaze You may yourself live to repent yout mercy. Comply, then, with the Grecians' just demand: Satiate their vengeance, and preserve yourself. F^r. The Greeks are .for my safety more con- cernp.d Than I desire: I thought your kings were met On more important counsel. When 1 heard DIALOGUES. 401 The name of their ambassador, I hoped Some glorious enterprise was taking birth. Is Agamemnon's son despatched for this? And do the Grecian chiefs, renowned in war, A race of heroes, join in close debate To plot an infant's death? What right has Greece To ask iiis life? Must I, must I alone, Of all her sceptred warriors, be denied To treat my captive as I please? Know, prince, When Troy lay smoking on the ground, and each Proud victor shared the harvest of the war, Andromache, and this he>' son, were mine; Were mine by lot; and wlio shall wrest them from me? Ulysses bore away old Priam's queen; Cassandra was your own great father's prize: Did I concern myself in what they won? Did I send embassies to claim their captives? OresU But, sir, we fear for you and for ourselves. Troy may again revive, and a new Hector Rise in Astyanax. Then think betimes — Pyr, Let dastard souls be timorously wise; But tell them, Pyrrhus knows not how to form Far-fancied ill, and dangers out of sight. Orest. Sir, call to mind the unrivalled strength of Troy; Her walls, her bulwarks, and her gates of brass, Her kings, her heroes, and embattled armies! Pyr. I call them all to mind; and see them all Confused in dust; all mixed in one wide ruin; All but a child, and he in bondage held. What vengeance can we fear from such a Troy? If they have sworn to extinguish Hector's race. Why was their vow for twelve long months deferred? Why was he not in Priam's bosom slain? He should have fallen among the slaughtered heaps Whelmed under Troy. His death had then been just. When age and infancy alike in vain Pleaded their weakness; when the heat of conquest. And horrors of tiie fight, roused all our rage. And blindly hurried us through scenes of death. My fury then was without bounds: but now, 402 DIALOGUES. My wrath appeased, must I be cruel still, And, deaf to all the tender calls ot pity, Like a fool murderer, bathe my hands in blood — An infant's blood?-— No, prince—Go, bid the Greeks Mark out some other victim; my revenge Has had its fill. What has escaped from Troy Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus. Orest. I need not tell ;^ou, sir, Astyanax Was doomed to death in Troy; nor mention how The crafty mother saved her darling son: The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence: Nor is't the boy, but Hector they pursue; The father draws their vengeance on the son: The father, who so oft in Grecian blood Has drenched his sword: the father whom the Greeks May seek even here. — Prevent them, sir, in time. Pyr. No! let them come; since I was born towage Eternal wars. Let them now turn their arras On him who conquered for them; let them come, And in Epirus seek another Troy. 'Twas thus they recompensed my godlike sire; Thus was Achilles thanked. But, prince, remember, Their black ingratitude then cost them dear. Philips, Glenalvon and J^Torval. Glen. His port I love: he's in a proper mood To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [Aside. Has Norval seen the troops? Jforv. The setting sun With yellow radiance lightened all the vale, And as the warriors moved, each polished helm, Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded b ams. The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top, Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed A host angelic, clad in burning arms. Glen. Thou talkest it well; no leader of our host In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war. Jforv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name, My speech will be less ardent. Novelty Now prompts my tongue, and youihfui admiration DIALOGUES. 403 Vents itself freely; since no part is mine Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval; Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth Above his veterans of famous service. Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. Give them all honour: seem not to command. Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power, Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns. Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days To hear and speak the plain and simple truth; And though 1 have been told that there are men Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, Yet in such language I am little skilled: Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel. Although it sounded harshly. Why remind Me of my birth obscure? Why slur my power With such contemptuous terms? Glen. I did not mean To gall your pride, which now I see is great. Norv. My pride! Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, I will not leave you to its rash direction. If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn? Norv. A shepherd's scorn! Glen. Yes; if you presume To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes, As if you took the measure of their minds, And said in secret, You're no match for me. What will become of you? J^orv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self ? Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me? J^orv. Didst thou not hear? Glen. Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe Had not been questioned thus; but such as thee— — JVorr. Whom dost thou think me? i| I K 404 DIALOGUES. Glen. Nerval. JVorv. So I am And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes? Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy, At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. JSTorv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect mv truth? ^ ^ Glen. Thy trutli! thou'rt all a lie; and false as hell Is the vainglorious tale thou toldest to Randolph. JVorv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old, Perhaps I should revile; but as I am, I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour. And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, I'd tpU thee— what thou art. I know thee well. Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command. Ten thousand slaves like thee? JSTorv. Villain, no more! Draw and defend thy life. I did design To have defied thee in another cause; But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs, Lord Ban. [Enters.'} Hold! I command you both! the man that stirs Makes me his foe. J^Torv. Another voice than thine, That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous con- descending! Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval I J^orv. Now you may scoff in safety. [Sheathes Lord Ban. Speak not thus, [his sword. Taunting each other, but unfold to me The cause of quarrel; then I judge betwixt you. J^Torv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. I blush to speak: I will not, cannot speak The opprobrious words that I from him have borne . DIALOGUES. 405 To the liege lord of my dear native land I owe a subject's homage; but even him And his high arbitration I'd reject. Within my bosom reigns another lord; Honour, sole judge and ucipire of itself. If mv free speech offend you, noble Randolph, Revoke your favours, and let Norval go Hence as he came, but not dishonoured! Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate v^'ith impartial voice; The ancient foe of Caledonia's land Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields; Suspend jour purpose till your country's arms Repel the bold invader; then decide The private quarrel. Glen. I agree to this. JSTorv. And I. \_Exit Randolph. Glen. Norval, Let not our variance mar the social hour, Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph. Nor fi'owning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate. Shall stain my countenance. Smoothe thou thy brow; Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame. Jforv, Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment; When we contend again, our strife is mortal. Home. David and Goliath. Goliath. Where is the mighty man of war, who dares Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief ? What victor-king, what general drenched in blood. Claims this high privilege? What are his rights? What proud credential^ does the boaster bring To prove hia claim? \vliat cities laid in ashes. What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms, What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings, In battle^killed, or at his altars slain, Has he to boast? Is his bright armory Thick set with spears, and swords, and coals of mail» Of vanquished nations, by his single arm Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold, I 406 DIALOGUES. So much a wretch, so out of love with Hfe, To dare the weight of this uplifted spear? Come, advance! Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald, Sound for the battle straight! David. Behold thy foe! Gol. I see him not. Dav. Behold him here! Gol. Say where? Direct my sight. I do not war with boys. Dnv. I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine. Gol. Why this is mockery, minion! it may chance To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee: But tell me who, of all this numerous host, Expects his death from me? Which is the man, Whom Isratl sends to meet my bold defiance? Dav.x The election of my sovereign falls on me. Gol. On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much ! Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion! 'Twould move my mirth at any other time; But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy! And tempt me not too far. Dav. I do defy thee, Thou foul idolater! Hast thou not scorned The armies of the living God I serve? By me he will avenge upon thy head Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name, Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood. Gol. Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods! The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy! Keep close to that same bloodless war of words. And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue- valiant warrior I Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung. Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp, Thou dainty-fingered hero? Now will I meet thee, Thou insect warrior! since thou dar'st me thus! Already I behold thy mangled limbs, Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed The fierce, blood-snufiing vulture. Mark me well I .n.rounu uiy spcur m twsot thy shialug lucks, DIALOGUES. 4o: I And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds. Dav. Ha ! say'st thou so? Come on, then ! Mark us well. Thou com'st to me with sword, and spear, and shield ! In the dread name of Israel's God, I come; The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st! Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook, With such a simple sling as shepherds use; Yet all exposed, d'ifenceless as 1 am, The God I serve shall give thee up a prey To my v':.orious arm. This day I mean To make the uncircumcised tribes confess There is a God in Israel. I will give thee. Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk, To glut the carrion kites. Nor thee alone; The mangled carcases of your thick hosts Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia, Through all her trembling tents and flying bands. Shall own that Judah'a God is God indeed! I dare thee to the trial ! Gol. Follow me. In this good spear I trust. Dav. I trust in Heaven ! The God of battles stimulates ray arm, And fires my soul with ardor not its own. H. More. THE END.