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the native character of that heart and the objects of its affection. By degrees he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. He breathes into it the fire of his own courage, a daring and desperate thirst for glory, an ardor panting for great enterprises, for all the storm and bustle and hurricane of life. In a short time the whole man is changed, and every object of his former delight is relinquished. No more he enjoys the tranquil scene: it has become flat and insipid to his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and crucible are thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes its fragrance upon the air in vain: he likes it not. His ear no longer drinks the rich melody of music: it longs for the trumpet's clangor and the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, no longer affects him; and the angelsmile of his wife, which hitherto touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now unseen and unfelt. Greater objects have taken possession of his soul. His imagination has been dazzled by visions of diadems, of stars and garters and titles of nobility. He has been taught to burn with restless emulation at the names of great heroes and conquerors. His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse into a wilderness; and in a few months we find the beautiful and tender partner of his bosom, whom he lately “permitted not the winds of" summer “to visit too roughly,” we find her shivering at midnight on the wintry banks of the Ohio, and mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell. Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest and his happiness, thus seduced from the paths of innocence and peace, thus confounded in the toils that were deliberately spread for him, and overwhelmed by the mastering spirit and genius of another, this man, thus ruined and undone and made to play a subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt and treason, this man is to be called the principal offender, while he by whom he was thus plunged in misery is comparatively innocent, a mere accessory ! Is this reason 7 Is it law Ż Is it humanity ? Sir, neither the human heart nor the human understanding will bear a perversion so monstrous and absurd so shocking to the soul! so revolting to reason | Let Aaron Burr, then, not shrink from the high destination which he has courted; and, having already ruined Blannerhasset in fortune, character, and happiness forever, let him not attempt to finish the tragedy by thrusting that ill-fated man between himself and punishment.
EVERY ONE THE ARCHITECT OF HIS OWN FORTUNE.
Allow me, young gentlemen, to impress upon your minds this truth:—the education, moral and intellectual, of every indiridual, must be chiefly his ourn work. You must be awakened to the important truth that, if you aspire to excellence, you must be. come active and vigorous co-operators with your teachers, and work out your own distinction with an ardor that cannot be uenched, a perseverance that considers nothing done while any *. yet remains to be done. Rely upon it that the ancients were right, Quisque sute fortunae faber: both in morals and intellect we give their final shape to our own characters, and thus become emphatically the architects of our fortunes. How else should it happen that young men, who have had precisely the same opportunities, should be continually presenting us with such different results, and rushing to such opposite destinies? Difference of talent will not solve it, because that difference is very often in favor of the disappointed candidate. You shall see issuing from the walls of the same school—nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same family—two young men, of whom the one shall be admitted to be a genius of high order, the other scarcely above the point of mediocrity; yet you shall see the genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity, and wretchedness; while, on the other hand, you shall observe the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing at every step, and mounting at length to eminence and distinction, an ornament to his family and a blessing to his country. Now, whose work is this? Manifestly, their own. They are the architects of their respective fortunes. And of this be assured, I speak from observation a certain truth, There is no eccellence without great labor. It is the fiat of Fate, from which no power of genius can absolve you. Genius unexerted is like the poor moth that flutters around a candle till it scorches itself to death. It is the capacity for high and long-continued exertion, the vigorous power of profound and searching investigation, the careering and wide-sweeping comprehension of mind, and those long reaches of thought that
4. pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon,
This is the prowess and these the hardy achievements which are to enroll your names among the great men of the earth. But how are you to gain the nerve and the courage for enterprises of this pith and moment? I will tell you. As Milo gained that strength which astounded Greece,—ly your own self. discipline. You have it in your power, indeed, to make yourselves just what you please; and of the truth of this hypothesis, to an extent quite incredible to yourselves at this time, observation and experience leave no doubt in my own mind. You may, if you please, become literary fops and dandies, and acquire the -
affected lisp and drawling nonchalance of the London cockney, or you may learn to wield the Herculean club of Dr. Johnson. You may skim the surface of science, or fathom its depths. You may become florid declaimers or cloud-compelling reasoners. You may dwindle into political ephemera, or plume your wings for immortality with Franklin, Hamilton, Jay, Jefferson, the Adamses, and a host of living worthies. You may become dissolute voluptuaries and debauchees, and perish in disgrace, or you may climb the steeps of glory, and have your names given, by the trumpet of Fame, to the four quarters of the globe. In short, you may become a disgrace and a reproach to this institution, or her proudest boast and honor; you may make yourselves the shame or the ornament of your families, and a curse or a blessing to your country." Address at Rutgers College, 1830.
ROBERT TREAT PAINE, 1773–1811.
Robert TREAt PAINE, son of the Hon. R. Treat Paine, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, was born in Taunton, Massachusetts, December 9, 1773. He entered Harvard College in 1788, and graduated with high honor in 1792, delivering an English poem on The Nature and Progress of Liberty. For some years after, he had no fixed employment, but sustained himself chiefly by his pen, writing prologues for the theatre, and poems and editorials for the newspapers. In June, 1798, at the request of the “Massachusetts Charitable Fire Society,” soon to celebrate its anniversary, he wrote his celebrated political song of Adams and Liberty. Political excitement ran very high at the time; for, as the French, whom the anti-Federalists of the day much favored, had behaved towards us in a very insulting manner, it was thought by many that a war would result. But happily this was averted by the firmness of President Adams, whose course Washington himself so much approved, that he consented, if it should become necessary, once more to take the command of the army.
In 1799, Paine entered the law-office of Judge Parsons, at Newburyport, and in 1802 was admitted to the bar; but, though for a short time he gave promise of
“We have remarked of Wirt that his life is peculiarly fraught with materials for the edification of youth. His career is full of wholesome teaching to the young votary who strives for the renown of an honorable ambition. Its difficulties and impediments, its temptations and trials, its triumphs over many obstacles, its rewards, both in the self-approving judgment of his own heart and in the success won by patient labor and well-directed study, and the final consummation of his hopes, in an old age not less adorned by the applause of good men than by the serene and cheerful temper inspired by a devout Christian faith, all these present a type of human progress worthy of the imitation of the young and gifted, in which they may find the most powerful incentives towards the accomplishment of the noblest ends of a generous love of fame.”—Kennedy's Life.
great eminence in his profession, he soon relaxed into his former indolent habits, living from year to year on a very precarious support, and died on the 11th of November, 1811, leaving a wife and two children entirely destitute. His father, however, took them to his house, and made liberal provision for them. His works in prose and verse were collected, two years after his death, in one octavo volume of 464 pages, and were highly lauded at the time. Of all his writings, however, none are now read but his celebrated political song of
ADAMS AND LIBERTY.
Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought
In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms;
Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak;
Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;
Should the Tempest of War overshadow our land,
Let Fame to the world sound America's voice;
WILLIAM SULLIVAN, 1774–1839.
John Sullivan, a gentleman of liberal education and of cultivated manners, came to this country from Ireland about the year 1730, and settled in Berwick, Maine. He left two sons, George and James. James entered the legal profession, and became Governor of Massachusetts. He died in 1808, leaving five sons and
"The following anecdote is related of this ode:—Paine had written all he intended, and, being at the house of Major Russell, the editor of the “Boston Centinel,” showed him the verses. They were highly approved, but pronounced imperfect, as the name of Washington was omitted. Paine was just then on the point of helping himself to some of the drinks upon the sideboard, when Major Russell pleasantly interposed, and said that he must take nothing till he had written a stanza introducing the name of Washington. Paine walked back and forth a few minutes, when he suddenly called for a pen, and iunmediately wrote this brilliant stanza, second to none in the ode.