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on hills and fields mysterious truths', which it is not given our fallen nature to understand. What think you, dear father' ? ”

“ I think, my beloved child', that the truths we do comprehend are enough to support us through all our trials.”

The confidence of the Christian was strong within him', when he spokè; but he looked on his dying daughter', the only image of a wife dearly beloved'—and nature prevailed". He covered his eyes', and shook his white hairs mournfully', as he added', “ God in his mercy grant', that we may find them sufficient in this dreadful struggle.” All was again still,—still', in that chamber of death. The birds sung as sweetly as if there was no such thing as discord in the habitations of man'; and the blue sky was as bright' as if earth were a stranger to ruin', and the human soul knew not of desolation'. Twilight advanced, unmindful that weeping eyes watched her majestic and varied beauty'. The silvery clouds', that composed her train', were fast sinking into a gorgeous coluinn of gold and purple. It seemed as if celestial spirits were hovering around their mighty pavilion of light', and pressing the verge of the horizon with their glittering sandals.

Amid the rich variegated heaps of vapor', was onē spot of clear bright cerulean. The deeply colored and heavy masses that surrounded it', gave it the effect of distance; so that it seemed like a portion of the inner heaven' Grace fixed her earnest gaze upon it', as a weary traveller does upon an oasis in the desert. "That awful luster which the soul beams forth at its parting was in her eyé, as she said, “I could almost fancy there are happy faces looking down to welcome me.”

“ It is very beautiful,” said Lucretia in a subdued tone. “It is such a sky as you loved to look upon', dear Gracé.”

“ It is such an one as wē loved',” she answered'; “ there was a time when it would have made me very happy; butmy thoughts are now beyond it."

Her voice grew faint', and there was a quick gasp'—as if the rush of memory was too powerful for her weak frame.

Doctor Willard hastily prepared a cordial', and offered it to her lips. Those lips were white and motionless'; her long'; fair eyelashes drooped', but trembled not. He placed his hand on her side ;—the heart that had loved so well, and endured so much', throbbed its last.





Do not, gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason from her seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy its defects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded your pride, or roused your resentment' ? Have, I conjure you, the magnanimity to par'don' that offence. I entreať, I implorè you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the interests of our country. Pour out this pride of opinion on the altar of patriotism. Let it be an expiatory libation for the weal of America. Do not suffer that' pride to plunge us all into the abyss of ruin. Indeed', indeed', it will be but of little, very little avail, whether onè opinion' or the other be right or wrong'; it will heal no wounds', it will pay no debts', it will rebuild no ravaged towns. Do not rely on that popular will, which has brought us' frail beings into political existence. That opinion' is but a changeable thing. It will soon change. This very measure will change it. You will be deceived. Do not', I beseech you, in reliance on a foundation so frail', commit the dignity', the harmony', the existence of our nation to the wild wind. Trust not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your compass and your charts into the ocean. Do not believe that its billows will waft you into port. Indeed, indeed', you will be deceived. Cast not away this only anchor of our safety. I have seen its progress. I know the difficulties through which it was obtained. I stand in the presence of Almighty God and' of the world. I declare to you, that if you lose this charter', never, no never", will you get another. We are now perhaps arrived at the parting point. Herè, even herè, we stand on the brink of fate. Pausè, then'-pause. For Heaven's saké, pause.



I RISE with reluctance on the present occasion. The lateness of the hour forbids me to hope for your patient attention. The subject is of great importance, as it relates to ôther countries', and still greater to our own"; yet we must decide on grounds uncertain', because they depend on circumstances not yet arrived. And when we attempt to penetrate into futurity, after exerting the utmost powers of reason, aided by all the lights

which experience could acquiré, our clearest conceptions are involved in doubt. A thousand things may happen, which it is impossible to conjecture, and which will influence the course of events. The wise Governor of all things has hidden the future from the ken of our feeble understanding. In committing ourselves, therefore, to the examination of what may hereafter arrivé, we hazard reputation on contingencies we cannot command. And when events shall be past, we shall be judged by them', and not by the reasons which we may now' advance.

There are many subjects which it is not easy to understand', but it is always easy to misrepresent'; and when arguments cannot be controverted', it is not difficult to calumniatè motives'. That which cannot be confuted', may be misstated. The purest intentions

may be blackened by malicé, and envy will ēvēr foster the foulest imputations. This calumny is among the sore evils of our country. It began with our earliest success in 1778, and has gone on with accelerated velocity and increasing force to the present hour. It is no longer to be checked', nor will it terminate but in that sweep of general destruction', to which it tends with a step as sure as time, and fatal as death. I know that what I utter will be misunderstood', misrepresented', deformed', and distorted'; but we must do our duty. This I believe is the last scene of my public lifè; and it shall, like those which preceded', be performed with candor and truth. Yes, my noble friends', [addressing himself to the Federal Senators near him,] we shall soon part to meet no more. But, however separated, and wherever dispersed', we know that we are united by just principle and true sentiment';-a sentiment', my country', ever devoted to yoù, which will expire only with expiring life', and beat in the last pulsation of our hearts.

My object is peace. I could assign many reasons to show that this declaration is sinceré. But can it be necessary to give this Senate any other assurancé than my word'? Notwithstanding the acerbity of temper which results from party strife', gentlemen will believe me on my word. I will not pretend', like my honorable colleagué, [Mr. Clinton,] to describe to you the wastè, the ravages', and the horrors of war. I have not the same harmonious periods', nor the same musical tones”; neither shall I boast of christian chârity', nor attempt to display that ingenuous glow of benevolencé 'so decorous to the cheek of youth', which gave a vivid tint to every sentence he uttered', and was', if possiblé, as impressive even as his eloquence. But though we possess not the same pomp of words, our hearts are not insensiblé to the woes of humanity. We can feel for

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the misery of plundered towns', the conflagration of defenceless villages', and the devastation of cultured fields'. Turning from these features of gēnērāl distress', we can enter the abodes of private affliction', and behold the widow weeping' as she traces! in the pledges of connubial affection' the resemblance of him whom she has lost forever. We see the aged matron bending over the ashes of her son. He was her darling', for he was generous and bravè, and therefore his spirit led him to the field' in defence of his country.

We can observe another oppressed with unutterable anguish. Condemned to conceal her affection', forced to hide that passion which is at once the torment and delight of life, she learns that those eyes which beamed with sentiment are closed in death'; and his lip', the ruby harbinger of joy', lies palè and cold', the miserable appendage of a mangled corse. Hard', hard indeed must be that heart', which can be insensible to scenes like theser; and böld thē mān, who dares present to the Almighty Father' a conscience crimsoned with the blood of his children.

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SCENE IN THE BURNING OF ROME BY NERO. STILL we spurred on', but our jaded horses at length sank under us; and leaving them to find their way into the fields', we struggled forward on foot. The air had hitherto been calm', but now, gusts began to rise', thunder growled', and the signs of tempest thickened on' We gained an untouched quarter of the city', and had explored our weary passage up to the gates of a large patrician palace, when we were startled by a broad sheet of flamé rushing through the sky. The storm was come in its rage. The range of public magazines of wood', cordagé, tar', and oil', in the valley between the Cælian and Palatine hills', had at length been involved in the conflagration'. All that we had seen before' was darkness' to the fierce splendor of this burning. The tempest tore off the roofs', and swept them like floating islands of fire through the sky. The most distant quarters on which they fell were instantly wrapped in flame. Onē broad māss', whirling from an immense height, broke upon the palace before us. A

cry of terror was heard within'; the gates were flung open', and a crowd of domestics and persons of both sexes', attired for a banquet', poured out

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into the streets. The palace was wrapped in flames. My guide then for the first time lost his self-possession. He stag, gered towards me with the appearance of a man who had received a spear-head in his bosom. I caught him before he fell'; but his head sank', his knees bent under him', and his white lips quivered with unintelligible sounds'. I could distinguish only the words “gonè, gonè forever!”

The flame had already seized upon the principal floors of the palace ; and the volumes of smoke that poured through every window and entrancé, rendered the attempt to save those still within', a work of extreme hazard. But ladders were rapidly placed', ropes were flung', and the activity of the attendants and retainers was boldly exerted', till all were presumed to have been saved', and the building was left to burn.

My overwhelmed guide was lying on the ground', when a sudden scream was heard', and a figuré, in the robes and with the rosy crown of the banquet',—strangè contrast' to her fearful situation', — was seen flying from window to window in the upper part of the mansion. It was supposed that she had fainted in the first terror', and been forgotten. The height', the fierceness of the flame, which now completely mastered resistancé, the volumes of smoke that suffocated every man who approached', made the chance of saving this unfortunate being utterly desperate in the opinion of the multitude.

My spirits shuddered at the horrors of this desertion'. I looked round at my companion': he was kneeling, in helpless agony', with his hands lifted up to heaven. Another scream', wilder than ever, pierced my senses.

I seized an axe from one of the domestics', caught a ladder from another', and in a paroxysm of hopé, fear', and pity', scaled the burning wall. A shout from below followed me. I entered at the first window that I could reach. All before me was cloud. I rushed on", struggled', stumbled over furniture and fragments of all kinds', fell', rose again', found myself trampling upon precious things', platè and crystal', and still', axe in hand', forced my way'. I at length reached the banqueting-room. The figure had van. ished. A strange superstition of childhood', a thought that I might have been lured by some spirit of evil into the place of ruin', suddenly came over me. I stopped to gather my faculties'. I leaned against one of the pillars”; it was hot”; the floor shook and crackled under my tread', the walls heaved', the flame hissed below', and over head roared the whirlwind', and burst the thunder-peal'.

My brain was fevered. The immense golden lamps still burning'; the long tables disordered', yet glittering with the

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