H H I > J : ' 8 1 A ' •V ^ v. ^ Xt >n r ^ / % " ,< X ,0o. J si v*V <\ '+ y ^ * .0^ v* V %^ V ^ %; •••.V ^-^^V^W: THE ■ % ORATOR'S OWN BOOK. COMPILED BY THE EDITOR OF WALDIE'S LIBRARY. h PHILADELPHIA.* PUBLISHED BY CRISSY, WALDIE, delivered in the British House of Commons, March 3, 1831. Mr. Speaker,— I deprecate, above all things, the course which some gentlemen have taken on this subject of Parlia- mentary Reform — that of making the revolution in France, a precedent for a revolution in this country. Let us, sir, remain content with the well-tempered freedom which we now enjoy, and which we have the means of securing, if we act with ordinary discretion. I lament exceedingly, sir, that government should have determined to agitate such a question as that of reform at this particular crisis ; it would have been much wiser in my opinion, to have avoided these new causes of excitement ; for, depend upon it, that by this process, throughout this land, the first seeds of discontent and disunion are sown. In every town, sir, there will be a conflict — a moral conflict, I mean — between the possessors of existing authority, and the existing privileges and those to whom the existing authority and existing privileges are to be transferred. Sir, I lament, beyond measure, that govern- ment had not the prudence to adhere to that temperate course of policy which they have pursued elsewhere. I lament, that, if they did think it necessary to propose a plan of reform in this excited state of the public mind, they did not confine it within those narrow limits, which would be consistent with the safety of the country, and the dignity of their own characters. They have thought proper, however, to adopt another course : — they have sent through the land the fire-brand of agitation — and it is easy, so far, to imitate the giant enemy of the Philistines, as to send three hundred fire-brands through the country, carrying danger and dis- may in all quarters : — but it is not so easy, when the mis- chief is done, to find a remedy for it. In the present diffi- culties of your situation, sir, you should have the power of summoning all the energies of life, and should take care that you do not signalize your own destruction, by bowing down the pillars of the edifice of your liberty, which, with all its imperfections, still contains the noblest society of freemen known to the habitable world. orator's own book. 121 - " Why," replied the wit, "I just saw a print of you in a new publication called the Camp Magazine, which, by-the- by, is a very clever thing, — and is sold at No, 3, on the right-hand of the way, two doors from the printing-office, the corner of Ivy-lane, Paternoster-row, price only one shilling." Sneer. Very ingenious, indeed ! Puff. But the Puff collusive is the newest of any ; for it acts in the disguise of determined hostility. — It is much used by bold booksellers and enterprising poets.— An indignant correspondent observes — that the new poem called Beelzebub's Cotillon , or Proserpine's Fete Champetre, is one of the most unjustifiable performances he ever read ! The severity with which certain characters are handled is quite shocking! And as there are many descriptions in it too warmly coloured for female delicacy, the shameful avidity with which this piece is bought by all people of fashion, is a reproach on the taste of the times, and a dis- grace to the delicacy of the age ! — Here you see the two strongest inducements are held forth; — First, that nobody ought to read it ; — and, secondly, that everybody buys it : on the strength of which, the publisher boldly prints the tenth edition, before he had sold ten of the first ; and then establishes it by threatening himself with the pillory, or absolutely indicting himself for scan. mag. ! Dang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — I know it is so. Puff. As to the PufT oblique, or Puff by implication, it branches into so many varieties, that it is the last principal class of the art of puffing An art which I hope you will now agree with me, is of the highest dignity. Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert, both to the impor- tance and ingenuity of your profession. 15 170 orator's own book. PRINCE HENRY AND HIS FATHER.-r- Shdkspeare. P. Henry. I never thought to hear you speak again. K. Henry. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair, That thou will needs invest thee with my honours, Before thy hour be ripe ! O foolish youth ! Thou seek'st the greatness that will o'erwhelm thee. Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind, That it will quickly drop ; my day is dim. Thou hast stol'n that, which after some few hours, Were thine without offence ; and at my death Thou hast sealed up my expectation ; Thy life did manifest, thou lov'dst me not ; And thou wilt have me die assur'd of it. Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart To stab at half an hour of my frail life. What ! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself, And bid the merry bells ring to thy ear, That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse, Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head : Only compound me with forgotten dust ; Give that which gave thee life unto the worms ; Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ; For now a time is come to mock at form ; Henry the Fifth is crown'd : up, Vanity ! Down royal state ! All your sage counsellors, hence ! And to the English court assemble now, From every region apes of idleness : Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum ; Have you a ruffian that will swear ? drink ? dance ? Revel the night? rob? murder? and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? Be happy, he will trouble you no more ; England shall give him office, honour, might: For the Fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks The muzzle of restraint ! and the wild dog 171 Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. P. Henry. O pardon me, my liege ! but for my tears (The moist impediments unto my speech) 1 had forestall' d this dear and deep rebuke, Ere, you with grief had spoke, and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown ; And he that wears the crown immortally, Long guard it yours ! If I affect it more, Than as your honour, and as your renown, Let me no more from this obedience rise, Which my most true and inward-duteous spirit Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending. Heav'n witness with me, when I here came in, And found no course of breath within you majesty, How cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign, let me in my present wildness die, And never live to show the incredulous world The noble change that I have purposed. Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, (And dead almost, my liege to think you were) 1 spake unto the crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it. " The care on thee depending Hath fed upon the body of my father, Therefore thou, best of gold, art worst of gold; Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in med'cine potable: But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renownM, Hast eat thy bearer up." Thus, royal liege, Accusing it, 1 put it on my head, To try with it (as with an enemy, That had before my face murder' d my father) The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride, If any rebel or vain spirit of mine Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of it ? 172 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. Let Heav'n forever keep it from my head, And make me as the poorest vassal is, That doth with awe and terror kneel to it ! K. Henry. O my son ! Heav'n put it in thy mind to take it hence, That thou might'st win the more thy father's love, Pleading so wisely in excuse of it. Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. Heav'n knows, my son, By what by-paths, and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown ; and I myself know well, How troublesome it sat upon my head. To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation ; For all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem'd in me But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand, And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances ; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, Wounding supposed peace. All their bold feats, Thou seest, with peril I have answered. For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument : and now my death Changes the mode : for what in me was purchas'd, Falls upon men in a much fairer sort ; For thou the garland wear'st successively. Yet though thou stand'st more sure than I could do, Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green : And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out : By whose fell working I was first advanc'd, And by whose pow'r I well might lodge a fear, To be again displac'd ; which to avoid, I cut them off, and had a purpose now To lead out many to the holy land ; Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence, born out, May waste the memory of former days. 173 More would I, but my lungs are wasted so, That strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God, forgive ! And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! P. Henry. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; Then plain and right must my possession be : Which I with more than with a common pain, 'Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain, CLARENCE'S DREAM.-— s/^peare. CLARENCE AND BRAKENBURY. Brak. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day ? Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; So full of dismal terror was the time. Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you tell me. Clar. Methought that I had broken from the tow'r, And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy, And in my company my brother Glo'ster; Who from my cabin templed me to walk Upon the hatchets. Thence we look'd tow'rd England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had, befall' n us. As we pass'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatchets, Methought that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, Struck me (that sought to stay him) over-board, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, lord, methought, what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of waters in my ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 1 thought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels ; 15* 174 Some lay in dead men's sculls ; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems ; That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. JBrak. Had you such leisure in the time of death, To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast and wand'ring air ; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. JBrak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony ? Clar. No, no ; my dream was lengthen'd after life then began the tempest to my soul : 1 pass'd methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cried aloud " What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" And so he vanished. Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud " Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments !"— With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling wak'd : and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell : Such terrible impression made my dream. Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you ; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. Clar. Ah ! Brakenbury, I have done those things That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me ! O God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou will be aveng'd on my misdeeds ; 175 Yet execute thy wrath on me alone ; spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children ! 1 jsr'ythee, Brakenbury, stay by me ; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. CONCLUSION OF THE EARL OF STAFFORD S DEFENCE OF HIM- SELF BEFORE THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 1641. My Lords, — It is hard to be questioned upon a law which cannot be shown. Where hath this fire lain hid so many hundred years, without smoke to discover it, till it thus burst forth to consume me and my children ? That punishment should precede promulgation of a law, to be punished by a law subsequent to the fact, is extreme hard. What man can be safe if this be admitted ? My lords, it is hard in another respect, that there should be no token set by which we should know this offence : no admonition by which we should avoid it. If the man pass the Thames in a boat, and split himself upon an anchor, and no buoy be floating to discover it, he who owneth the anchor shall make satisfaction ; but if a buoy be set there, every man passeth upon his own peril. Now, where is the mark, where is the token upon this crime to declare it to be high treason ? My lords, be pleased to give that regard to the peerage of England, as never to expose yourselves to such moot points, such constructive interpretations of law ; if there must be a trial of wits, let the subject matter be of somewhat else than the lives and honours of peers. It will be wisdom for yourselves, for your posterity, and for the whole kingdom, to cast into the fire these bloody and mysterious volumes of constructive and arbitrary trea- son, as the primitive Christians did their books of curious arts, and betake yourselves to the plain letter of the law and statute, that telleth us what is, and what is not treason, without being ambitious to be more learned in the art of killing than our forefathers. It is now full two hundred and forty years since any man was touched for this alleged crime, to this height, before myself. Let us not awaken these sleeping lions to 176 our destruction, by taking up a few musty records that have lain by the walls so many ages, forgotten or neglected. May your lordships please not to add this to my other misfortunes ; let not a precedent be derived from me so dis- advantageous as this will be, in its consequence, to the whole kingdom. Do not, through me, wound the interest of the commonwealth : and howsoever these gentlemen say, they speak for the commonwealth ; yet in this particular, I indeed speak for it, and show the inconvenience and mischiefs that will fall upon it : for as it is said in the statute of 1 Henry IV. no one will know what to do or say, for fear of such penalties. Do not put, my lords, such difficulties upon ministers of state, that men of wisdom, of honour, and of fortune, may not with cheerfulness and safety be employed for the public. If you weigh and measure them by grains and scruples, the public affairs of the kingdom will lie waste ; no man will meddle with them, who hath any thing to lose. My lords, I have troubled you longer than I would have done, were it not for the interest of those dear pledges a saint in heaven hath left me. [At this word he stopped awhile, letting fall some tears to her memory ; then he went on] — What I forfeit myself is nothing ; but that my indiscretion should extend to my posterity, woundeth me to the very soul ! You will pardon my infirmity. Something I should have added but am not able ; therefore let it pass. Now, my lords, for myself, I have been by the blessing of Almighty God, taught, that the afflictions of this present life are not to be compared to the eternal weight of glory which shall be revealed hereafter. And so, my lords, even so with all tranquillity of mind, I freely submit myself to your judgment, and whether that judgment be of life or death, te Deum laudamiis. ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 177 TWILIGHT. Halleck. There is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest. And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. ? Tis with a nameless feeling of regret We gaze upon them as they melt away, And fondly would we bid them linger yet, But Hope is round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow : Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. And manhood felt her sway too, — on the eye, Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form* The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. ? T is in life's noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There 's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; 178 That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart, Till the faint light of life is fled afar, And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death. -Jane Taylor. What were they ? — you ask : you shall presently see ; These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea ; O no; — for such properties wond'rous had they, That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh, Together with articles, small or immense, From mountains or planets to atoms of sense ; Nought was there so bulky but there it could lay, And nought so ethereal but there it would stay ; And nought so reluctant but in it must go :- — AH which some examples more clearly will show. The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, Which retained all the wit that had ever been there ; As a weight he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf, Containing the prayer of the. penitent thief; When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, As to bound like a ball on the roof of his cell. Next time he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a weight ; And though clad in armour from sandals to crown, The hero rose up, and the garment went down. A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ; Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce. By further experiments (no matter how) He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough. A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a tenpenny nail. orator's own book. 179 A lord and a lady went up at full sail, When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, — Ten counsellor's wigs full of powder and curl, — All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence, Weighed less than some atoms of candour and sense ; — A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, Than one good potato just washed from the dirt ; — Yet not mountains of silver and gold would suffice. One pearl to outweigh — 'twas " the pearl of great price !" At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight; — When the former sprung up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof- — While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell, That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. EXTRACT FROM A REVIEW OF MILTON's WORKS. Charming. We now come to a serious objection to Milton's prose writings, and that is, that they are disfigured by party spirit, coarse invective, and controversial asperity ; and here we are prepared to say, that there are passages in these works which every admirer of his character must earnestly desire to expunge. Milton's alleged virulence was mani- fested towards private and public foes. In regard- to the public enemies whom he assailed, we mean the despots in church and state, and the corrupt institutions which had stirred up a civil war, the general strain of his writings, though strong and stern, must exalt him, notwithstanding his occasional violence, among the friends of civil and reli- gious liberty. That liberty was in peril. Great evils were struggling for perpetuity, and could only be broken down by great power. Milton felt, that interests of infinite moment were at stake ; and who will blame him for binding himself to them with the whole energy of his great mind, and for defending them with fervour and vehemence ? There is constantly going on in our world, a conflict between good and evil. The cause of human nature has always to wrestle with foes. All improvement is a victory won by strug- 180 orator's own book. gles. It is especially true of those great periods, which have been distinguished by revolutions in government and religion, and from which we date the most rapid movements of the human mind, that they have been signalized by con- flict. Thus Christianity convulsed the world and grew up amidst storms ; and the reformation of Luther was a signal to universal war; and liberty in both worlds has encoun- tered opposition, over which she has triumphed only through her own immortal energies. At such periods, men gifted with great power of thought and loftiness of sen- timent are especially summoned to the conflict with evil. They hear, as it were, in their own magnanimity and gene- rous aspirations, the voice of a divinity ; and thus commis- sioned and burning with a passionate devotion to truth and freedom, they must and will speak with an indignant energy ; and they ought not to be measured by the standard of ordinary men in ordinary times. Men of natural softness and timidity, of a sincere but effeminate virtue, will be apt to look on these bolder, hardier spirits, as violent, perturbed and uncharitable ; and the charge will not be wholly ground- less. The deeply moved soul will speak strongly, and ought so to speak as to move and shake nations. Milton reverenced and loved human nature, and attached himself to its great interests with a fervour of which only such a mind was capable. He lived in one of those solemn periods which determine the character of ages to come. His spirit was stirred to its very centre by the presence of danger. He lived in the midst of battle. That the ardour of his spirit sometimes passed the bounds of wisdom and charity, and poured forth unwarrantable invectives, we see and lament. But the purity and loftiness of his mind break forth amidst his bitterest invectives. We see a noble nature still. "We see that no feigned love of truth and freedom was a covering for selfishness and malignity. He did indeed love and adore uncorrupted religion, and intellectual liberty, and let his name be enrolled among their truest champions. orator's own book. 181 NATIONAL RECOLLECTIONS THE FOUNDATION OF NATIONAL CHARACTER. E. Everett. And how is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its his- toric recollections ? Are we to be eternally ringing the changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going back to read in obscure texts of Greek and Latin of the exemplars of patriotic virtue ? I thank God that we can find them nearer home, in our own country, on our own soil ;— that strains of the noblest senti- ment that ever swelled in the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our mother tongue ; — that the colonial and pro- vincial councils of America exhibit to us models of the spirit and character, which gave Greece and Rome their name and their praise among the nations. Here we ought to go for our instruction : — the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is appli- cable. When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with the difference of manners and institutions. We are willing to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for his country, in the face of his foe. But, when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection, that the same Spartan heroism, to which he sacri- ficed himself at Thermopylae, would have led him to tear his own child, if it had happened to be a siekly babe, — the very object for which all that is kind and good in man rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and carry it out to be eaten by the wolves of Taygetus. We feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon, by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; but we cannot forget that the tenth part of the num- ber were slaves, unchained from the workshops and door- posts of their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. I do not mean that these examples are to destroy the interest with which we read the history of ancient times ; they possibly increase that interest by the very contrasts they exhibit. But they do warn us, if we need the warn- ing, to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own 16 182 country is the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers. Them we know, — the high-souled, natural, unaffected, the citizen heroes. We know what happy firesides they left for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habits they dared the perils of the field. There is no mys- tery, no romance, no madness, under the name of chivalry, about them. It is all resolute, manly resistance for con- science and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, but of all the force of long-rooted habits, and native love of order and peace. Above all, their blood calls to us from the soil which we tread ; it beats in our veins : it cries to us not merely in the thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, — " My sons, scorn to be slaves !" — but it cries with a still more moving eloquence — " My sons, forget not your fathers !" Fast, oh ! too fast, with all our efforts to prevent it, their precious memories are dying away. Notwithstand- ing our numerous written memorials, much of what is known of those eventful times dwells but in the recollections of a few revered survivors, and with them is rapidly perishing, unrecorded and irretrievable. How many prudent counsels, conceived in perplexed times ; how many heart-stirring words, uttered when liberty was treason ; how many brave and heroic deeds, performed when the halter, not the laurel, was the promised meed of patriotic daring, — are already lost and forgotten in the graves of their authors ! How little do we, — although we have been permitted to hold converse with the venerable remnants of that day, — how little do we know of their dark and anxious hours ; of their secret meditations ; of the hur- ried and perilous events of the momentous struggle ! And while they are dropping around us like the leaves of autumn, while scarce a week passes that does not call away some member of the veteran ranks, already so sadly thinned, shall we make no effort to hand down the traditions of their day to our children ; to pass the torch of liberty, — which we received in all the splendour of its first enkindling, — bright and flaming, to those who stand next us on the line ; so that, when we shall come to be gathered to the dust where our fathers are laid, we may say to our sons and our grand- sons, " If we did not amass, we have not squandered your inheritance of glory." orator's own book. 183 CATO S SENATE. Addison. Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council. Caesar's approach has summon'd us together, And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. How shall we treat this bold aspiring man ? Success still follows him, and backs his crimes : Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has since Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow, And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'T is time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us, And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. Fathers, pronounce your thoughts : are they still fix'd To hold it out and fight it to the last ? Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought By time and ill success to a submission? Sempronius, speak. Sempronins. My voice is still for war. Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slav'ry or death ! No, let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And, at the head of our remaining troops, Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; Rise, and revenge her slaughter' d citizens, Or share their fate ! the corpse of half her senate Manure the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here delib'rating in cold debates, If we should sacrifice our lives to honour, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame ! Our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud — To battle ! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us. Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason : 184 True fortitude is seen in great exploits That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides : All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction. Are not the lives of those who draw the sword In Rome's defence intrusted to our care ? Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter, Might not the impartial world with reason say, We lavish'd at our deaths the blood of thousands, To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious ? Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion. Lucius. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace. Already have our quarrels fill'd the world With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns Oar guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions Lie half-unpeopled by the feuds of Rome : 'T is time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind. It is not Caesar, but the gods, my fathers, The gods declare against us, and repel Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle, (Prompted by blind revenge, and wild despair) Were to refuse th' awards of Providence, And not to rest in Heaven's determination. Already have we shown our love to Rome ; Now let us show submission to the gods. We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, But free the commonwealth ; when this end fails, Arms have no further use ; our country's cause, That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands, And bids us not delight in Roman blood, Unprofitably shed : what men could do Is done already : Heav'n and Earth will witness If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. Semp. This smooth discourse, and mild behaviour, oft Conceal a traitor Something whispers me All is not right — —-Cato, beware of Lucius. Cato. Let us appear nor rash nor diffident ; Immod'rate valour swells into a fault ; And fear, admitted into public councils, Betrays like treason. Let us shun 'em both. Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs Are grown thus desp'rate ; we have bulwarks round us : Within our walls are troops inur'd to toil orator's own book. 185 In Afric's heats, and season'd to the sun ; Numedia's spacious kingdom lies behind us, Ready to rise at its young prince's call. While there is hope, do not distrust the gods ; But wait at least till Caesar's near approach Force us to yield. 'T will never be too late To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time ? No, let us draw our term of freedom out In its full length, and spin it to the last : So shall we gain still one day's liberty ; And let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty, Is worth a whole eternity of bondage. Enter Marcus. Marc. Fathers, this moment, as I watched the gate, Lodg'd on my post, a herald is arrived From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, The Roman knight : he carries in his looks . Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. Cato. By your permission, fathers, bid him enter. Decius was once my friend, but other prospects Have loos'd those ties, and bound him fast to Ceesar. His message may determine our resolves. Enter Decius. Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato Cato. Could he send it To Cato's slaughter'd 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 you 're 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 tell him, Cato Disdains a life which he has power to offer. Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more, Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? 16* 186 orator's own book. Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urg'd forbid it* 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 may you stand high in your country's honours ; Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar. 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 stand the judgment of a Roman senate : Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. Dec. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom — Cato. Nay more, though Cato's voice was ne'er employed To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour, And strive to gain his pardon from the people. 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 your 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 Caesar's sword has made Rome's senate little, And thinn'd its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye Beholds this man in a false glaring light, Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; Did'st thou but view him right, thou Mst see him black With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes, That strike my soul with horror but to name 'em, I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch orator's own book. 187 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. Bee. Does Cato send this answerback Caesar, For all his gen'rous cares, and profTer'd 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 shelt'ring men much better than himself. Dec. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget You are a man. You rush on your destruction. But I have done. When I relate hereafter The tale of this unhappy embassy, All Rome will be in tears. JAFFIER AND PIERRE. Otway. Jaff. By Heav'n you stir not; I must be heard, I must have leave to speak : Thou hast disgrae'd me, Pierre, by a vile blow : Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice 1 But use me as thou wilt, thou can^st not wrong me, For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries : Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy ; With pity and with charity behold me ; Shut not thy heart against a friend's repentance ; But as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, Listen with mildness to my supplications. Pier. What whining monk art thou ? what holy cheat, That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears, A nd cant thus vilely ? hence ! I know thee not. Jaff. Not know me, Pierre ! Pier. No, I know thee not ; what art thou ? Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once-lov'd valu'd friend ! Though now deserv'dly seorn'd, and us'd most hardly. Pier. Thou Jaffier ! thou my once-lov'd valu'd friend i By Heav'ns thou ly'st ; the man so call'd my friend, Was generous, honest, faithful, just and valiant. Noble in mind, and in his person lovely, 188 orator's own book. Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart; But thou a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect : All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. Prithee avoid, nor longer cling thus round me, Like something baneful, that my nature 's chill'd at. Jaff. I have not wrong' d thee, by these tears I have not, But still am honest, true, and hope too, valiant ; My mind still full of thee, therefore still noble. Let not thy eyes then shun me, nor thy heart Detest me utterly : Oh ! look upon me, Look back and see my sad, sincere submission ! How my heart swells, as e'en 'twould burst my bosom ; Fond of its goal, and labouring to be at thee ; What shall I do ? what say to make thee hear me 1 Pier. Hast thou not wrong'd me ? dar'st thou call thyself That once-lov'd valu'd friend of mine, And swear thou hast not wrong'd me ? Whence these chains ? Whence the vile death, which I may meet this moment ? Whence this dishonour, but from thee, thou false one ? Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, and I've done asking. Pier. What's that ? Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions The council have propos'd : thou and thy friend May yet live long, and to be better treated. Pier. Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record myself A villain, for the privilege to breathe, And carry up and down this cursed city A discontented and repining spirit, Burdensome to itself, a few years longer, To lose it, may be at last, in a lewd quarrel For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art ! No, this vile world and I have long been jangling, And cannot part on better terms than now, When only men like thee are fit to live in't. Jaff. By all that's just Pier. Swear by some other powers, For thou hast broken that sacred oath too lately. Jaff. Then, by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee, Till to thyself at least thou 'rt reconcil'd, However thy resentment deal with me. Pier. Not leave me ! orator's own book. 189 Jaff. No ; thou shall not force me from thee ; Use me reproachfully, and like a slave, Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head ; I'll bear it all with patience ; I'll weary out thy most friendly cruelty, Lie at thy feet and kiss 'em, though they spurn me, Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. Pier. Art thou no t Jaff. What? Pier. A traitor? Jaff Yes. Pier. A villain ? Jaff. Granted. Pier. A coward, a most scandalous coward, Spiritless, void of honour, one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ? Jaff. All, all, and more, much more : my faults are num- berless. Pier. And would' st thou have me live on terms like thine. Base as thou 'rt false ? Jaff. No ; 'tis to me that's granted : The safety of thy life was all I aim'd at, In recompense for faith and trust so broken. Pier. I scorn it more, because preserv'd by thee ; And as when first my foolish heart took pity On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries, Reliev'd thy wants, and raised thee from thy state Of wretchedness, in which thy fate had plung'd thee, To rank thee in my list of noble friends ; All I receiv'd, in surety for thy truth, Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stol'n . So 1 restore it back to thee again ; Swearing, by all those powers which thou hast violated 9 Never from this curs'd hour to hold communion, Friendship or interest with thee, though our years Were to exceed those limited the world. Take it Farewell, for now I owe thee nothing, Jaff. Say thou wilt live then. Pier. For my life, dispose of it Just as thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tir'd with* 190 Jaff. Oh Pierre ! Pier. No more. Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pier. Leave me — Nay, then thus, thus I throw thee from me ; And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee. THE HORRORS OF WAR. Extract from a Sermon of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, entitled, " Thoughts on Universal Peace." The first great obstacle, my friends, to the extinction of war, is the way in which the heart of man is carried off from its barbarities and its horrors, by the splendour of its deceitful accompaniments. There is a feeling of the sub- lime in contemplating the shock of armies, just as there is in contemplating the devouring energy of a tempest ; and this so elevates and engrosses the whole man, that his eye is blind to the tears of bereaved parents, and his ear is deaf to the piteous moan of the dying, and the shriek of their deso- lated families. There is a gracefulness in the picture of a youthful warrior burning for distinction on the field, and lured by this generous aspiration to the deepest of the ani- mated throng, where, in the fell work of death, the opposing sons of valour struggle for a remembrance and a name ; and this side of the picture is so much the exclusive object of our regard, as to disguise from our view the mangled car- casses of the fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds and the hundreds more, who have been laid on the cold ground, where they are left to languish and to die. There no eye pities them. No sister is there to weep over them. There no gentle hand is present to ease the dying posture, or bind up the wounds, which in the maddening fury of the combat, have been given and received by the children of one common Father. There death spreads its pale ensigns over every countenance, and when night comes on, and darkness around them, how many a despairing wretch must take up with the bloody field as the untended bed of his last sufferings, without one friend to bear the message of ten- 191 derness to his distant home ; without one companion to close his eyes. On every side of me, I see causes at work which go to spread a most delusive colouring over war, and to remove its shocking barbarities to the back-ground of our contem- plations altogether. I see it in the history which tells me of the superb appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive charges. I see it in the poetry, which lends the magic of its numbers to the narrative of blood, and trans- ports its many admirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes of chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene of legalized slaughter. I see it in the music, which represents the progress of the battle ; and where, after being inspired by the trumpet-notes of preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of a drawing room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertainment ; nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt the death tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of the wounded men, as they fade away upon the ear, and sink into lifeless silence. All, all goes to prove what strange and half-sighted creatures we are. Were it not so, war could never have been seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness : and I can look to nothing but to the progress of Christian sentiment upon earth, to arrest the strong current of its popular and prevailing partiality for war. CARDINAL WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. Shakspeare. Wol. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness. This is the state of man : to day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot — And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, 192 Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet regard of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. [Enter Cromwell. Why, how now, Cromwell ? Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir. Wol. What, amaz'd At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep, I 'm fallen indeed. Crom. How does your Grace ? Wol. Why, well ; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities ; A still and quiet conscience. The king has eas'd me, I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity taken A load would sink a navy : too much honour. Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have : I'm able, now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, T' endure more miseries, and greater far, Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad ? Crom. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the king. Wol. God bless him ! Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place. Wol. That's somewhat sudden But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his highness' favour, and do justice, For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, orator's own book. 193 When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him ! What more ? Cro7n. That Cranmer is returned with welcome : InstalFd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That's news indeed! Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open as his queen, Going to chapel ; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: O < Cromwell ! The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories In that one woman I have lost forever. No sun shall ever usher forth my honours, Or. gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell ; I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master : seek the king — (That sun, I pray, may never set !) I've told him What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; Some little memory of me will stir him, (I know his noble nature) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell ; Neglect him not ; make use now and provide For thine own future safety. Crom. Oh, my lord ! Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord ! The king shall have my service ; but my prayers, Forever and forever shall be yours. Wol. Cromwell — I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries — but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth to play the woman Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard — say then I taught thee ; Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory, 17 194 orator's own book. And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, (Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't ? Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that wait thee : Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not. Let* all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king — ■ — And prithee lead me in — There take an inventory of all I have ; To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, And mine integrity to heaven is all I dare now call my own. Oh, Cromwell, Cromwell ! Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my king — he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good Sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court ! My hopes in heaven do dwell. SENECA S ADDRESS TO THE EMPEROR NERO. Tacitus. May it please the imperial majesty of Caesar, favourably to accept the humble submissions and grateful acknowledg- ments of the weak though faithful guide of his youth. It is now a great many years since I first had the honour of attending your imperial majesty as preceptor. And your bounty has rewarded my labours with such affluence, as has drawn upon me, what I had reason to expect, the envy of many of those persons, who are always ready to prescribe to their prince where to bestow, and where to withhold his favours. Its well known, that your illustrious ancestor, Augustus, bestowed on his deserving favourites, Agrippa and Maecenas, honours and emoluments, suitable to the dig- nity of the benefactor, and to the services of the receivers ; orator's own book. 195 nor has his conduct been blamed. My employment about your imperial majesty has, indeed, been purely domestic ; I have neither headed your armies, nor assisted at your councils. But you know, sir (though there are some who do not seem to attend to it,) that a prince may be served in different ways, some more, others less conspicuous; and that the latter may be to him as valuable as the former. " But what !" say my enemies, " shall a private person, of equestrian rank, and a provincial by birth, be advanced to an equality with the patricians ? Shall an upstart, of no name nor family, rank with those who can, by the statues which make the ornament of their palaces, reckon back- ward a line of ancestors, long enough to tire out the fasti?* Shall a philosopher who has written for others precepts of moderation, and contempt of all that is external, himself live in affluence and luxury ? Shall he purchase estates and lay out money at interest ? Shall he build palaces, plant gardens, and adorn a country at his own expense, and for his own pleasure?" Caesar has given royally, as became imperial magnificence. Seneca has received what his prince bestowed ; nor did he ever ask ; he is only guilty of — not refusing. Caesar's rank places him above the reach of invidious malignity. Seneca is not, nor can be, high enough to despise the envious. As the overloaded soldier, or traveller, would be glad to be relieved of his burden, so I, in this last stage of the journey of life, now that I find myself unequal to the lightest cares, beg, that Caesar would kindly ease me of the trouble of my unwieldy wealth. I beseech him to restore to the imperial treasury, from whence it came, what is to me superfluous and cumbrous. The time and the attention, which I am now obliged to bestow upon my villa and my gardens, I shall be glad to apply to the regulation of my mind. Caesar is in the flower of life ; long may he be equal to the toils of government ! His goodness will grant to his worn-out servant leave to retire. It will not be derogatory from Caesar's greatness to have it said, that he bestowed favours on some, who, so far from being intoxicated with them, showed — that they could be happy, when (at their own request) divested of them. * The fasti, or calendars, of the ancients, had, as our almanacs, tables of kings, consuls, &c 196 orator's own book. DEATH OF BERTRAM.— -Walter Scott The outmost crowd have heard a sound, Like horse's hoof on hardened ground : Nearer it came, and yet more near, The very death's-men paused to hear. *Tis in the church-yard now — the tread Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, Return the tramp in varied tone. All eyes upon the gateway hung, When through the Gothic arch there sprung A horseman armed, at headlong speed — Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. Fire from the flinty floor was spurned, The vaults unwonted clang returned ! One instant's glance around he threw, From saddle-bow his pistol drew. Grimly determined was his look ! His charger. with the spurs he strook — All scattered backward as he came, For all knew Bertram Rosingham ! Three bounds that noble courser gave ; The first has reached the central nave, The second cleared the chancel wide, The third — he was at WyclifFe's side. Full leveled at the Baron's head, Rung the report — the bullet sped — And to his long account, and last, Without a groan, dark Oswald past ! All was so quick, that it might seem A flash of lightning or a dream. While yet the smoke the deed conceals, Bertram his ready charger wheels ; But foundered on the pavement floor The steed, and down the rider bore, And, bursting in the headlong sway, The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 'T was while he toiled him to be freed, And with the rein to raise the steed, That from amazement's iron trance All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once 4 orator's own book. 197 Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows Hailed upon Bertram as he rose : A score of pikes with each a wound, Bore down and pinned him to the ground. But still his struggling force he rears, 'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears; Thrice from assailants shook him free, Once gained his feet and twice his knee. By tenfold odds oppressed at length, Despite his struggles and his strength, He took a hundred mortal wounds, As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds ; And when he died, his parting groan Had more of laughter than of moan ! —They gazed, as when a lion dies, And hunters scarcely trust their eyes, But bend their weapons on the slain, Lest the grim king should rouse again ! Then blow and insult some renewed, And from the trunk the head had hewed, But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; A mantle o'er the corse he laid — " Fell as he was in act and mind, He left no bolder heart behind ; Then give him for a soldier meet, A soldier's cloak for winding sheet." — THE DANGER OF ALTERING THE CONSTITUTION. Extract from Governeur Morris's Speech on the Judiciary, delivered in the United States Senate, January 14, 1802. Mr. President, — Is there a member of this house who can lay his hand on his heart and say, that consistently with the plain words of our constitution, we have a right to repeal this law ? I believe not. And if we undertake to construe this constitution to our purposes, and say that pub- lic opinion is to be our judge, there is an end to all consti- tutions. To what will not this dangerous doctrine lead? Should it to-day be the popular wish to destroy the first magistrate, you can destroy him : and should he to-morrow 17 * 198 orator's OWN BOOK. be able to conciliate to himself the will of the people, and lead them to wish for your destruction, it is easily effected. Adopt this principle, and the whim of the moment will not only be the law, but the constitution of our country. Some, indeed, flatter themselves, that our destiny will be like that of Rome. Such, indeed, it might be, if we had the same wise, but vile aristocracy, under whose guidance they became the masters of the world. But we have not that strong aristocratic arm, which can seize a wretched citizen, scourged almost to death by a remorseless creditor, turn him into the ranks, and bid him, as a soldier, bear our eagle in triumph round the globe ! I hope, indeed, we shall never have such an abominable institution. But what, I ask, will be the situation of these states, (organized as they now are,) if by the dissolution of our national compact, they be left to themselves ? What is the probable result ? We shall either be the victims of foreign intrigue, and split into factions, fall under the domination of a foreign power, or else, after the misery and torment of civil war, become the subjects of an usurping military despot. What but this compact, what but this specific part of it, can save us from ruin ? The judicial power, that fortress of the constitution, is now to be overturned. Yes, with honest Ajax, I would not only throw a shield before it, I would build around it a wall of brass. But I am too weak to defend the rampart against the host of assailants. I must call to my assistance their good sense, their patriotism, and their virtue. 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 the defects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded your pride, or roused your resentment? Have, I conjure you, the magnanimity to pardon that offence. I entreat, I implore you, to sacrifice those angry passions to the inte- rests 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, I beseech you, 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 one 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 orator's own book. 199 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, and 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. Here, even here, we stand on the brink of fate. Pause — pause— for heaven's sake, pause ! ! DEATH S FINAL CONQUEST. Shirley. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow ; Then boast no more your mighty deeds : Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. All heads must come To the cold tomb : Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust. 200 orator's own book. DESCRIPTION OF THE BALLOT BY BEANS. — Burke. But, my lords, it seems all these defects in point of accu- sation, of defence, of trial and of judgment, as the ingenious gentlemen have argued, are cured by the magical virtue of those beans, by whose agency the whole business must be conducted. If the law had permitted a single word to be exchanged between the parties, the learned counsel confess that much difficulty might arise in the events which I have stated ; but they have found out that all these difficulties are prevented or removed by the beans and the ballot. According to these gentlemen, we are to suppose one of those unshaven dema- gogues, whom the learned counsel have so humorously de- scribed, rising in the commons when the name of Alderman James is sent down ; he begins by throwing out a torrent of seditious invective against the servile profligacy and lickerish venality of the board of aldermen — this he does by beans ; having thus previously inflamed the passions of his fellows, and somewhat exhausted his own, his judgment collects the reins that floated on the neck of his imagination, and he be- comes grave, compressed, sententious, and didactic ; he lays down the law of personal disability, and corporate crimi- nality, and corporate forfeiture, with great precision, with sound emphasis, and good discretion, to the great delight and edification of the assembly — and this he does by beans. He then proceeds, my lords, to state the specific charge against the unfortunate candidate for approbation, with all the artifice of malignity and accusation ; scalding the culprit in tears of affected pity, bringing forward the blackness of imputed guilt through the varnish of simulated commisera- tion ; bewailing the horror of his crime, that he may leave it without excuse ; and invoking the sympathy of his judges, that he may steel them against compassion — and this, my lords, the unshaved demagogue doth by beans. The ac- cused doth not appear in person, for he cannot leave his companions, nor by attorney, for his attorney could not be admitted — but he appears and defends by beans. At first, humble and deprecatory, he conciliates the attention of his judges to his defence, by giving them to hope that it may 201 be without effect ; he does not alarm them by any indis- creet assertion that the charge is false, but he slides uppn them arguments to show it improbable ; by degrees, how- ever he gains upon the assembly, and denies and refutes, and recriminates, and retorts — all by beans, — until at last he challenges his accuser to a trial, which is accordingly had, in the course of which the depositions are taken, the facts tried, the legal doubts exposed and explained — by beans ;— -and in the same manner the law is settled with an exactness and authority that remains a record of jurispru- dence, for the information of future ages ; while at the same time the "harmony" of the metropolis is attuned by the marvellous temperament of jarring discord; and the " good will" of the citizens is secured by the indissoluble bond of mutual crimination and reciprocal abhorrence. By this happy mode of decision, one hundred and forty- six causes of rejection, (for of so many do the commons consist, each of whom must be entitled to allege a distinct cause,) are tried in the course of a single day with satisfac- tion to all parties. With what surprise and delight must the heart of the for- tunate inventor have glowed, when he discovered those wonderful instruments of wisdom and of eloquence, which, without being obliged to commit the precious extracts of science or persuasion, to the faithless and fragile vehicles of words or phrases, can serve every process of composition or abstraction of ideas, and every exigency of discourse or argumentation, by the resistless strength and infinite variety of beans, white or black, or boiled or raw ; displaying all the magic of their powers in the mysterious exertion of dumb investigation and mute discussion ; of speechless ob- jection, and tongue-tied refutation ! Nor should it be forgotten, my lords, that this noble dis- covery does no little honour to the sagacity of the present age, by explaining a doubt that has for so many centuries perplexed the labour of philosophic inquiry ; and furnishing the true reason why the pupils of Pythagoras were prohib- ited the use of beans : it cannot, I think, my lords, be doubted, that the great author of the metempsychosis found out that those mystic powers of persuasion, which vulgar naturalists supposed to remain lodged in minerals, or fossils, had really transmigrated into beans ; and he could not, there- 202 fore but see that it would have been fruitless to preclude his disciples from mere oral babbling, unless he had also de- barred them from the indulgence of vegetable loquacity. MARCO BOZZARIS. Halleck. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast, As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band ; " Strike — till the last armed foe expires, Strike — for your altars and your fires, Strike — for the green graves of your sires. God — and your native land !" They fought like brave men, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. orator's own book. 203 Come to the bridal chamber, death ! Come to the mother, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath : — Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; — Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, And thou art terrible : the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's— One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. FALSTAFF S ENCOMIUM ON SACK. Skakspeare. A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain : dries me there, all the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours which environ it: makes it appre- hensive, quick, inventive : full of nimble, fiery, and delecta- ble shapes ; which delivered over to the voice, the tongue which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris, is the warming of the blood ; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the 204 inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face ; which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm : and then, the vital commoners, and inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart! who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage — and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it awork ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant ; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be — to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to Sack. Henry IV. PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CATO. Pope. To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius and to mend the heart, To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold— For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age ; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue, wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory or the virgin's love: In pitying love we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its wo. Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause- Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breast with ancient ardours rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess' d in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was ; No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ; A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state ! 205 While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ? E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state : As her dead father's rev'rend image pass'd, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, The triumph ceas'd — tears gush'd from every eye ; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by : Her last good man, dejected Rome ador'd, And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. Britons attend. Be worth like this appro v'd, And show you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued. Our scene precariously subsists too long On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves : assert the stage ; Be justly warm'd with your own native rage. Such plays alone should please a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS. Livy. I know not, soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and necessi- ties. 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 undi- minished, you were hardly able to force a passage. Here then, soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very first hour you meet the enemy. But the same fortune which has thus laid you under the necessity 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 recover only Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, those would be no 18 206 orator's own book. inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are 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 Lusitania and Celtiberia ; you have hitherto met with no reward worthy of the labours and dangers you have undergone. The time is now come to reap the full recompense of 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 your glorious warfare, and receive an ample recompense of your completed service. For I would not have you imagine, that victory 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 bloody battle, and the most renowned kings and nations have by a small force been overthown. And if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name, what is there, wherein they may stand in competition with you ? For (to say nothing of your service in war for twenty years together with so much valour and success) from the very pillars of Hercules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the earth, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not come hither victorious ? And with whom are you now to fight ? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, besieged by the Gauls the very last summer, an army unknown to their leader, and unac- quainted with him. Or shall I, who was born I might almost say, but cer- tainly brought up, in the tent of my father, that most excel- lent 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 I compare myself with this half- year captain ? A captain before whom should one place the two armies without their ensigns, I am persuaded he would not know to which of them he is consul ! I esteem it no small advantage, soldiers, that there is not one among you, who has not often been an eye-witness of my exploits in war ; not one of whose valour I myself have not been a ' spectator, so as to be able to name the times and places of his noble achievements ; that with soldiers, whom 1 have a 207 thousand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil I was, before I became their general, I shall march against an army of men, strangers to one another. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength ; a veteran infantry ; a most gallant cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger impels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy ; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indig- nities fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge . — First they demanded me ; that I, your general, should be delivered up to them ; next, all of you, who had fought at the siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! Every thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! You are to pre- scribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace ! You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up within hills and rivers ; but you — you are not to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed ! Pass not the Iberus. What next ? Touch not the Saguntines ; Sagustum is upon the Iberus, move not a step towards that city. Is it a small matter then, that you have deprived us of our ancient pos- sessions, Sicily and Sardinia ; you would have Spain too ? Well, we shall yield Spain ; and then — you will pass into Africa. Will pass, did I say ? — This very year they or- dered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then. Be men. The Romans may with more safety be cowards : they have their own country behind them, have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; but for you there is no middle fortune between death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, I say, you are conquerors. 208 orator's own book ROLLA AND THE SENTINEL. FROM THE TRAGEDY OF " PIZARRO," BY KOTZEBUE ; ACT 4, SCENE 1. [A sentinel ;s walking guard before the dungeon of Alonzo. Rolla, his friend, enters, in order to gain admission, to save him.] Rol. Inform me, friend , is not Alonzo, the Spanish pri- soner, confined in this dungeon ? Sen. He is. Rol. I must speak with him. Sen. You must not. . Rol. He is my friend. Sen. Not if he were thy brother. Rol. What is to be his fate ? Sen. He dies at sun-rise. Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time, Sen. Just — to witness his death. Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him. Sen. Back, back — it is impossible ! Rol. I do entreat thee, but for one moment ! Sen. Thou ^ftreatest in vain — my orders are most strict. R°Je: 'Even now I saw a messenger go hence. 0S ^ Sen. He brought a pass which we are all accustomed to obey. Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold — look on these precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope or wish. Take them, they are thine — Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo. Sen. Away ! Avouldst thou corrupt me ? Me ? an old Castilian ? I know my duty better. Rol. Soldier ! hast thou a wife ? Sen. I have. Rol. Hast thou children ? Sen. Four honest lovely boys. Rol. Where didst thou leave them ? Sen. In my native village ! even in the cot where myseli was born. Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife 1 Sen. Do I love them ! God knows my heart — I do. Rol. Soldier ! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land—what would by thy last request ? orator's own book. 209 Sen. That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children. Rol. Oh ! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be told — thy fellow soldier dies at sun-rise, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children, or his wretched wife, what wouldst thou think of him who thus could drive thy comrade from the door? Sen. How ! Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessings of my friend. Sen. Go in. — {Retires.) Rol. Oh, holy nature ! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not, of our earth, a creature bearing form and life, human or savage — native of the forest wild, or giddy air — around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined, of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate ! Alonzo ! Alonzo ! my friend ! Ha ! in gentle sleep ! Alonzo — rise ! M. How ! is my hour elapsed ? Well — {returning from the recess) — I am ready. Rol. Alonzo — know me. M. What voice is that ? Rol. ' Tis Holla's. Al. Rolla ! my friend ! — {Embraces him.) — Heavens ! — how couldst thou pass the guard 1 Did this habit — Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, as I passed our field of battle ; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon ; now take it thou, and fly. Jll. And Rolla— Rol. Will remain here in thy place. Al. And die for me ? No ! rather eternal tortures rack me. Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks not Holla's ; and from my prison soon will thy arm deliver me ; or should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain, stand- ing alone amid the sandy desert. Nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art a husband and a father ; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy 18* 210 orator's own book, life. Go ! go ! Alonzo ! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child ! JLl. Urge me not thus, my friend ; I had prepared to die in peace. Roil. To die in peace ! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for, to madness, misery and death ! for be assured, the state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return. M. Oh God ! Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word and shrunk from its fulfilment. And by the heart of truth I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee no power that sways the will of man shall stir me hence ; and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction, that Cora and thy child — are lost forever ! M. Oh, Rolla ! thou distractest me ! Rol. A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me ; I will treat with Pizarro as for surrender and submission ; I shall gain time, doubt not, while thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even now I hear the frantic Cora call thee ! Haste ! — Haste ! — Haste ! Jil. Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour and from right. Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend ? M. Oh ! my preserver ! — {Embracing him.) Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. Go, I am rewarded ! — {Throws the Friar's garment over Alon- zo.) There, conceal thy face ; and, that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee ! SI. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me, heaven, 1 return to save, or perish with thee ! — {Exit.) Rol. — {Alone.) — He has passed the outer porch — he is safe ! He will soon embrace his wife and child ! Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me ? This is the first time, throughout my life, I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God of truth ! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again ! Yes — there ! — {Lifting his hands to heaven,) — assuredly we shall meet again ; there possess in 211 peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship — on earth imperfect and imbittered. I will retire, lest the guard re- turn before Alonzo may have passed their lines. — {Retires into the recess.) THE RIGHT OF SELF-DEFENCE AGAINST THE ACCUSATIONS OF PARLIAMENT. Extract from Mr. Erskine's Speech on the Trial of Stockdale. * Gentlemen of the Jury, — Mr. Stockdale, who is brought before you as a criminal for the publication of this book, a review of the articles of impeachment against Mr. Hast- ings, has by employing me as his advocate, reposed what must appear to many an extraordinary degree of confidence ; since, although he well knows that I am personally con- nected in friendship with most of those whose conduct and opinions are principally arraigned by its author, he neverthe- less commits to my hands his defence and justification. Now the question, gentlemen, you have to try upon all this matter is extremely simple. It is neither more nor less than this : At a time when the charges against Mr. Hastings were, by the implied consent of the Commons, in every hand and on every table ; when, by their managers, the lightning of eloquence was continually consuming him, and flashing in the eyes of the public ; — when every man was, with per- fect impunity, saying, and writing, and publishing, just what he pleased of the supposed plunderer and devastator of nations ; would it have been criminal in Mr. Hastings himself to have reminded the public that he was a native of this free land, entitled to the common protection of her jus- tice, and that he had a defence in his turn to offer them, the outlines of which he implored them in the mean time to re- * When Warren Hastings, Governor General of India, was im- peached by the House of Commons, the articles of impeachment were drawn up by Mr. Burke ; and not only were the allegations specified, but they were embellished with all the eloquence of that gifted orator. The pamphlet having been extensively circulated throughout the kingdom, the Rev. Mr. Logan, a Scotch clergyman, drew up a Review of the articles of Impeachment, and carried it for publication to Mr. Stockdale, an eminent bookseller in London. For the publication of this pamphlet, Mr. Fox moved in the House of Commons, that Mr. Stockdale be prosecuted. 212 orator's own book. ceive, as an antidote to the unlimited and unpunished poison in circulation against him 1 This is, gentlemen, without colour or exaggeration, the true question you are to decide. Because I assert, without the hazard of contradiction, that if Mr. Hastings himself could have stood justified or ex- cused in your eyes for publishing this volume in his own defence, the author, if he wrote it bona fide* to defend him, must stand equally excused and justified : and if the author be justified, the publisher cannot be criminal, unless you have evidence that it was published by him, with a dif- ferent spirit and intention from those in which it was written. The question, therefore, gentlemen, is correctly what I just have stated it to be. Could Mr. Hastings have been condemned to infamy for writing this book ? Gentlemen, I tremble with indignation to be driven to put such a question in England. Shall it be endured, that a subject of this coun- try may be impeached by the Commons for the transactions of twenty years ; that the accusation shall spread as wide as the region of letters ; that the accused shall stand day after day, and year after year, as a spectacle before the public, which shall be kept in a perpetual state of inflammation against him, yet that he shall not, without the severest pen- alties, be permitted to submit any thing to the judgment of mankind in his defence ? If this be law, (which it is for you this day to decide,) such a man has no trial : this great hall, built by our fathers for English justice, is no lon- ger a court, but an altar; and an Englishman, instead of being judged in it by God and his country, is a victim and a sacrifice. GENERAL WASHINGTON S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS, Delivered before the Battle of Long Island, in 1776. The time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves ; whether they are to have any property they can call their own ; whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of wretched- ness, from which no human efforts will deliver them. The * Bona fide, in good faith, sincerely, honestly. 213 fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelent- ing enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject submission. We have therefore to resolve to conquer or die. Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigor- ous and manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, We shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us then rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the Su- preme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny meditated against them.— Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. Liberty, property, life and honour are all at stake ; upon your courage and conduct, rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country ; our wives, children and parents, expect safety from us only ; and they have every reason to believe, that Heaven will crown with suecess so just a cause. The enemy will endeavour to intimidate by show and appearance; but remember, they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, if opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advan- tage of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders- — and reserve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. SCENE OF FILIAL AFFECTION. Shakspeare Lear, Cordelia, Kent and Physician. Cor. O my dear father ! Restoration, hang Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made ! 214 orator's own book. Kent. Kind and dearest princess ! Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be expos 'd against the warring winds ? To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder ? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning ? To watch (poor pardu !) With this thin helm ? My very enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire: and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, In short and musty straw ? alack, alack ! 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once, Had not concluded — Ah ! he wakes ; speak to him. Phys. Madam, do you, 'tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty ? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave ; Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire ; that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you know me ? Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? Cor. Still, still, far wide— Phys. He 's scarce awake ; let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been ? where am I ? fair daylight ? I 'm mightily abus'd; I should even die with pity To see another thus. I know not what to say ; I will not swear these are my hands: let's see, I feel this pin-prick : would I were assur'd Of my condition. Cor. look upon me, sir, And hold your hand in benediction o'er me. No, sir, you must not kneel. Lear. Pray do not mock me ; I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful ; for I'm mainly ignorant, What place this is ; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments : nay, I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, 215 For as I am a man, I think, this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am; I am — Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes, faith : I pray you, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it ; I know you do not love me ; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause. Lear. Am I in France ? Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Phys. Be comforted, good madam ;■ Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more Till further settling. Cor. Will't please your highness walk? Lear. You must bear with me ; Pray you now forget and forgive ; I am old and foolish. A SISTER PLEADING FOR THE LIFE OF A CONDEMNED BROTHER* Shakspcare. Isabella and Angelo. Jsab. I am a woful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. Ang. Well; what's your suit? Isab. There is a vice that most 1 do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice, For which I would not plead, but that I must. Ang. Well ; the matter ? hah. I have a brother is condemn' d to die ; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? Why, every fault's condemn' d ere it be done ; Mine were the very cipher of a function, To find the faults, whose fine stands in record. And let go by the actor. Isab. O just, but severe law ! 215 I had a brother then ; Heaven keep your honour ! Must he needs die ? Jlng. Maiden, no remedy. Isab. Yes ; 1 do think that you might pardon him ; And neither Heav'n nor man grieve at the mercy. Jlng. I will not do't. Isab. But can you, if you would? Jlng. Look, M^hat I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do 't, and do the w rid no wrong. If so your heart were touch' d with that remorse, As mine is to him ? Jlng. He 's sentenc'd ; 'tis too late. Isab. Too late ? Why no ; I that do speak a word, May call it back again : well believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace, As mercy does. If he had been as you, And you as he, you wouxd have slipt like him ; But he, like you, would not have been so stern. Jlng. Pray you, begone. Isab, I would to Heav'n I had your potency, And you were Isabel ; should it then be thus ? No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge, And what a prisoner. Jlng. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. Isab. Alas ! alas ! Why, all the souls that are, were forfeit once : And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, Found out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are ? Oh, think on that ; And mercy then will breathe within ycur lips, Like man new made. Jlng. Be you content, fair maid ; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him ; he dies to-morrow. Isab. To-morrow, oh ! that 's suddem Spare him, spare him. orator's own book. 217 Good, good my lord, bethink you : Who is that hath died for this offence ? There 's many hath committed it. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept ; Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, If the first man that did th' edict infringe, Had answer'd for his deed. Now, 't is awake, Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet r Looks in a glass that shows what future evils, Or new, or by remissness new-conceiv'd, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born, Are now to have no successive degrees ; But ere they live, to end. Isab. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall ; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content. Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence ; And he, that suffers: oh, 'tis excellent To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. Merciful Heaven ! Thou rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle : O, but man ! proud man, Dress'd in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd, Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heav'n, As makes the angels weep. We cannot weigh our brother with yourself : Great men may jest with saints ; 'tis wit in them ; But, in the less, foul profanation. That in the captain's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o ? th' top : go to your bosom ; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 19 218 That's like my brother's fault ; if it confess A natural guiltiness, such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. Ang. She speaks, 'tis such sense, That my sense bleeds with it. Fare you well. Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back. Ang. I will bethink me ; come again to-morrow. Isab. Hark, how I '11 bribe you : good my lord, turn back. Ang. How bribe me ? Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that Heav'n shall share with you. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor, As fancy values them, but with true prayers, That shall be up at Heav'n, and enter there, Ere sun-rise ; prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. Ang. Well, come to-morrow. Isab. Heav'n keep your honour safe I Ang. Amen. For I am that way going to temptation. Where prayers cross. Isab. At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship ? Ang. At any time 'fore noon. Isab. Save your honour. REFLECTIONS ON A WOUNDED STAG.— Shakspeare. Duke and Lord. Duke. Now, my comates, and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp ? are not these woods More free from peril, than the envious court ? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The season's difference ; as the icy phang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 219 Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, This is no flattery ; these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head : And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. Come, shall we go, and kill us venison? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should, in their own confines, with forked heads, Have their round haunches gor'd. Lord. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that ; And in that kind swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that has banish'd you. To-day my lord of Amiens, and myself, Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; To the which place a poor sequestered stag, That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques ? Stood on th' extreraest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears. Duke. But what said Jaques ? Did he not moralize this spectacle ? Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament, As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much. Then being alone, Left and abandon' d of his velvet friends : 220 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 'Tis right, quoth he, thus misery doth part The flux of company. Anon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, And never stays to greet him : Ay, quoth Jaques, Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens, 'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life ; swearing, that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up In their assign'd and native dwelling place. Duke. And did you leave him in this contemplation ? Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer. Duke. Show me the place ; I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he's full of matter. Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins. Sir R. I'll tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose you will maintain there is. Hum. Yes. Sir R. Yes ! is that the way you talk to me, you old boor ? What's my name 1 Hum. Robert Bramble. Sir R. An't I a baronet ? Sir Robert Bramble, of Black- berry Hall, in the county of Kent ? 'T is time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years : can you deny that ? Hum. Hem ! Sir R. Hem ! what do you mean by hem ? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question ? Hum. Because if I contradict you I shall tell a lie, and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. 221 Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long en- deavouring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried. Hum. What then ? Our parson says my head is an em- blem of both our honours. Sir JR. Ay ; because honours, like your head are apt to be empty. Hum. No ; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other. Sir JR. Why to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as hon- est as a — pshaw ! the parson means to palaver us ; but to return to my position. I tell you I don't like your flat con- tradiction. Hum. Yes, you do. Sir R. I tell you I don't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their flummery. Hum. What do you call flummery ? Sir R. Flattery, blockhead ! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones. Hum. I never serve it up to you. Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description. Hum. Hem ! what is it ? Sir R. Sour crout, you old crab. Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year. Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him : now I am rich and hate flattery. Ergo— when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him. Hum. That's wrong. Sir R. Very well — negatur — now prove it. Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man. Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want while I have a shilling. Hum. Well then I am a poor 1 must be a poor man now, or I shall never get on. Sir. R Well, get on, be a poor man. Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and con- vince you you are wrong ; then you call yourself a block- head, and I am of your opinion ! now that's no flattery. 19* 222 orator's own book. Sir R. Why no ; but when a man 's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where's my nephew, Frederic ? Hum. Been out these two hours. Sir R. An undutiful cub ! only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he 's scampering over the fields like a Calmuc Tartar. Hum. He 's a fine fellow. Sir JR. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey ? Hum. No, not a bit ; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on. Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there ? s no flat- tery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit — Hum- phrey, you remember my brother Job ? Hum. Yes, you drove him to Russia five-and-twenty years ago. Sir R. I did not drive him. Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace in the way of argument. Sir R. At peace ! zounds, he would never go to war. Hum. He had the merit to be calm. Sir R. So has a duck pond. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poor box gaping for half pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resist- ance. We couldn't disagree and so we parted. Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life. Sir R. A quiet life ! why he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian mer- chant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen and leather ; what's the consequence ? thirteen months ago he broke. Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the busi- ness for him. Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress I must not neglect his son. Hum. Here comes his son ; that 's Mr. Frederic. orator's own book. 223 Enter Frederic. Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning ! your park is nothing but beauty. Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty ? I told you to stay in doors till I got up. Fred. So you, did, but I entirely forgot it. Sir R. And pray what made you forget it? Fred. The sun. Sir R. The sun ! he 's mad ! you mean the moon, I believe. Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning, upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright, trees budding, birds singing, the park was so gay, that I took a leap out of your old balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased them all around the park to get an appetite for breakfast, while you were snoring in bed, uncle. Sir R. Oh, Oh ! So the effect of English sunshine upon a Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony and worry my deer. Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me. Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. Fred. 1 hate legacies. Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens at least. Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle ; they are posthu- mous despatches, affection sends to gratitude, to inform us we have lost a gracious friend. Sir R. How charmingly the dog argues ! Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morn- ing. I will obey you better in future ; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman. Sir R. Now who had the familiar impudence to tell you that. Fred. Old rusty, there. Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you did n't ? Hum. Yes, but I did though. Fred. Yes, he did, and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience, for 't is as meritorious to attempt shar- ing a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon 224 orator's own book. a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle ; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket. Sir R. [Shaking him by the hand."] Jump out of every window I have in the house, hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow. Ay hang it ! this is spunk and plain speak- ing. Give me a man who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrines smack in my teeth. Fred. 1 disagree with you there, uncle. Hum So do I. Fred. You, you forward puppy ! If you were not so old, I' d knock you down. Sir R. I '11 knock you down if you do. I wont have my servants thumped into dumb flattery ; I wont let you teach them to make silence a toad eater. Hum. Come, you 're ruffled. Let's go to the business of the morning. Sir R. Hang the business of the morning. Don't you see we are engaged in discussion. 1 hate the business of the morning. Hum. No you don't. SirR. Why don't I? Hum. Because it 's charity. Sir R. Pshaw, hang it. Well, we must not neglect the business ; if there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey. Hum. [Reading.^ Jonathan Haggans, of Muck Mead, is put in prison. Sir R. Why, it was but last week, Gripe, the attorney, received two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. Hum. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble ; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder. Sir R. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow's dis- tress. Fred. And I must kick his attorney. Hum. The curate's horse is dead. Sir R. Pshaw ! there 's no distress in that. Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year. Sir R. Why wont Punmonk, the vicar, give him another nag? orator's own book. 225 Hum. Because 't is cheaper to get another curate ready- mounted. Sir R. What 's the name of the black pad I purchased last Tuesday at Tunbridge ? Hum. Beelzebub. Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. Fred. And if you have a tumble-down-tit, send him to the vicar, and give him a chance of breaking his neck. Sir R. What else? Hum. Somewhat out of the common — there 's one Lieu- tenant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a widower, come to lodge at farmer Harrowby's in the village ; he 's very poor, indeed, it seems ; but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud. Fred. That sounds like a noble character. Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance. Hum. He 'd see you hanged first; Harrowby says, he 'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling ! — there 's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that has served in the wars with him — he keeps them all upon half pay. Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey ! Fred. [ Going. ~\ Uncle, good morning. Sir R. Where, you rogue, are you running now ? Fred. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington. Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him ? Fred. 1 can 't tell till I encounter him ; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant in honourable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments. [Hurrying away. Sir R. Stop, you rogue, I must be before you in this business. Fred. That depends upon who can run fastest ; so start fair, uncle, and here goes. [Runs off. Sir R. Stop; why Frederic — a jackanapes — to take my department out of my hands. I '11 disinherit the dog for his assurance. Hum. No, you wont. Sir R. Wont I ? hang me if I But we '11 argue that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey. 226 POLITICAL CUPIDITY REPROVED. From Mr. Sheridan's Speech on the Address to the Throne. In such an hour as this, at a moment pregnant with the national fate, can it be, that people of high rank, and profess- ing high principles, that they, or their families should seek to thrive on the spoils of misery, and fatten on the meals wrested from industrious proverty ? Can it be, that this should be the case with the very persons, who state the unprecedented peril of the country, as the sole cause of their being found in the ministerial ranks ? The constitution is in danger, religion is in danger, the very existence of the nation itself is endangered : all per- sonal and party considerations ought to vanish ; the war must be supported by every possible exertion, and by every possible sacrifice ; the people must not murmur at their bur- dens ; it is for their salvation ; their all is at stake. The time is come, when all honest and disinterested men should rally round the throne as a standard : — for what, ye honest and disinterested men ? to receive for your own private emolu- ment a portion of those very taxes, which you yourselves wring from the people, on the pretence of saving them from the poverty and distress, which you say the enemy would inflict, but which you take care that no enemy shall be able to aggravate. Oh ! shame ! shame ! is this a time for selfish intrigues, and the little dirty traffic for lucre and emolument? Does it suit the honour of a gentleman to ask at such a moment? Does it become the honesty of a minister to grant ? Is it intended to confirm the pernicious doctrine, so industriously propagated by many, that all public men are impostors, and that every politician has his price ? Or even where there is no principle in the bosom, why does not prudence hint to the mercenary and the vain, to abstain awhile at least, and wait the fitting of the times ? Improvident impatience ! Nay, even from those who seem to have no direct object of office or profit, what is the language which their actions speak ? The throne is in danger ! we will support the throne ; but let us share the smiles of royalty — the order of nobility is in danger ! I will fight for nobility, says the viscount, but ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 227 my zeal would be much greater if I were made an earl. Rouse all the marquis within me ! exclaims the earl, and the peerage never turned forth a more undaunted champion in its cause than I shall prove. Stain my green riband blue, cries out the illustrious knight, and the fountain of honour will have a fast and faithful servant ! What are the people to think of our sincerity ? — What credit are they to give to our professions ? — Is this system to be persevered in ? — Is there nothing that whispers to that right honourable gentleman, that the crisis is too big, that the times are too gigantic, to be ruled by the little hackneyed and every-day means of ordinary corruption ? — or are we to believe, that he has within himself a conscious feeling, that disqualifies him from rebuking the ill-timed selfishness of his new allies ? AUTUMN. Longfellow. O, with what glory comes and goes the year ! The buds of spring — those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times — enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with A sober gladness, the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow-richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker, full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing ; and in the vales The gentle wind — a sweet and passionate wooer- Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved, — Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves ; the purple finch, 228 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, — A winter bird, — comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel ; whilst aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings ; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. O, what a glory doth this world put on For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Goldsmith. A Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare. Thanks, my lord, for your ven'son, for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd on a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regret- ting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view, To be shown to my friend as a piece of virtu : As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They 'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ; Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it 's no bounce ; I protest, in my turn, It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burne.* * Lord Clare's nephew. 229 To go on with my tale — as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; So I cut it and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There 's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and HifF — I think they love ven'son — I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins — oh ! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it — to poets, that seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them, it would look like a flirt, Like sending 'em ruffles, when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, An acquaintance, a friend (as he call'd himself) enter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, Who smil'd as he gaz'd at the ven'son and me. " What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" " Why whose should it be, sir?" cried I, with a flounce ; " I get these things often" — but that was a bounce: " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind — but I hate ostentation." " If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way; To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on 't — precisely at three : We' 11 have Johnson and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I 'd ask my lord Clare. And, now that 1 think on't, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner. I '11 take no denial : it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter — this ven'son with me to Mile-End; No words, my dear Goldsmith — my friend — my dear friend !" Thus snatching his hat, he brush' d off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 20 230 orator's own book. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And " nobody with me at sea but myself;" Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we were all to dine, (A chair-lumber' d closet, just twelve feet by nine) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; " And I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, The one at the House, and the other with Thrale. But no matter, I '11 warrant we '11 make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, Who dabble and write in the papers like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge : Some think he writes China — he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name. They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinnage and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round : But what vex'd me the most, was that d 'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue, And, " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, If a prettier dinner I ever set eyes on ; Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd, But I 've eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst." " The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, I could eat of this tripe seven days in a week : I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." orator's own book. 231 " O — ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty." — " A pasty !" repeated the Jew : ""I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." " What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; " Though, splitting, I '11 still keep a corner for thot" " We '11 all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; " We '11 all keep a corner," was echoed about While thus we resolv'd, that the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter' d the maid ; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. But we quiekly found out (for who could mistake her ?) That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on 't the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour mispiac'd, To send such good verses-to one of your taste : You 've got an odd something — a kind of discerning— A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; At least it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. ORATION CONCERNING THE REGULATION OF THE STATE. Demosthenes. You ask, Athenians ! " What real advantage have we de- rived from the speeches of Demosthenes ? He rises when he thinks proper ; he deafens us with his harangues ; he declaims against the degeneracy of present times ; he tells us of the virtues of our ancestors ; he transports us by his airy extravagance ; he puffs up our vanity ; and then sits down." But, could these my speeches once gain an effectual in- fluence upon your minds, so great would be the advantage conferred upon my country, that were I to attempt to speak them, they would appear to many as visionary. Yet still I must assume the merit of doing some service, by accustom- 232 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. ing you to hear salutary truths. And if your counsellors be solicitous for any point of moment to their country, let them first cure your ears ; for they are distempered : and this, from the inveterate habit of listening 1 to falsehoods, to every thing, rather than your real interests. Thus it lately happened, (let no man interupt me : let me have a patient hearing) that some persons broke into the treasury. The speakers all instantly exclaimed, " Our free constitution is overturned : our laws are no more !" And now, ye men of Athens ! judge, if I speak with reason. They who are guilty of this crime, justly deserve to die ; but by such offenders our constitution is not overturned. Again, some oars have been stolen from our arsenal. " Stripes and tortures for the villain ! our constitution is sub- verted !" This is the general cry. But what is my opin- ion ? This criminal, like the others, hath deserved to die ? but, if some are criminal, our constitution is not therefore subverted. There is no man who dares openly and boldly to declare, in what case our constitution is subverted. But I shall declare it. When you Athenians become a helpless rabble, without conduct, without property, without arms, without order, without unanimity ; when neither general, nor any other person, hath the least respect for your de- crees ; when no man dares to inform you of this your con- dition, to urge the necessary reformation, much less to exert his efforts to effect it : then is your constitution subverted. And this is now the case. But, O my fellow citizens ! a language of a different na- ture hath poured in upon us ; false, and highly dangerous to the state. Such is that assertion, that in your tribunals is your great security ; that your right of suffrage is the real bulwark of the constitution. That these tribunals are our common resource, in all private contests, I acknowledge. But it is by arms we are to subdue our enemies ; by arms we are to defend our state. It is not by our decrees that we can conquer. To those, on the contrary, who fight our bat- tles with success, to those we owe the power of decreeing, of transacting all our affairs, without control or danger. In arms, then, let us be terrible; in our judicial transactions, humane. If it be observed, that these sentiments are more elevated than might be expected from my character, the observation, 233 I confess, is just. Whatever is said about a state of such dignity, upon affairs of such importance, should appear more elevated than any character. To your worth should it cor- respond, not to that of the speaker. And now I shall inform you, why none of those who stand high in your esteem, speak in the same manner. The candidates for office and employment go about soliciting your voices, the slaves of popular favour. To gain the rank of general, is each man's great concern ; not to fill this station with true manlike intrepidity. Courage, if he pos- sesses it, he deems unnecessary ; for, thus he reasons : he has the honour, the renown of this city to support him ; he finds himself free from oppression and control ; he needs but to amuse you with fair hopes ; and, thus, he secures a kind of in- heritance in your emoluments. And he reasons truly. But, do you yourselves, once assume the conduct of your own affairs; and then, as you take an equal share of duty, so shall you acquire an equal share of glory. Now, your min- isters and public speakers, without one thought of directing you faithfully to your true interests, resign themselves en- tirely to these generals. Formerly you divided into classes, in order to raise the supplies : now the business of the classes is to gain the management of public affairs. The orator is the leader; the general seconds his attempts; the Three Hundred are the assistants on each side ; and all others take their parties, and serve to fill up the several factions. And you see the consequences : this man gains a statue ; this amasses a fortune ; one or two command the state ; while you sit down unconcerned witnesses of their success ; and, for an uninterrupted course of ease and indolence, give them up those great and glorious advantages which really belong to you, MUCIUS SCEVOLA TO KING PORSENA.— ~-Livij. I am a Roman citizen — my name Mucius. My purpose was to kill an enemy. Nor am I less prepared to undergo the punishment, than I was to perpetrate the deed. To do and to suffer bravely is a Roman's part. Neither am I the only person thus affected towards you. There is a long list of competitors for the same honour. If, therefore, you 20 * 234 orator's own book. choose to confront the danger of setting your life every hour at hazard, prepare yourself — you will have the foe in every porch of your palace. This is the kind of war that the Ro- man youth declare against you. You have nothing to fear in the field. The combat is against you alone, and every individual is your antagonist. THE INESTIMABLE VALUE OF THE UNION. Webster. Mr. President,— If the plain provisions of the Constitu- tion of these United States shall now be disregarded, and the new doctrines (of State rights) interpolated in it, it will be- come as feeble and helpless a being as its enemies, whether early or more recent, could possibly desire. It will exist in every State, but as a poor dependent on State permission. It must borrow leave to be, and will be, no longer than State pleasure, or State discretion, sees fit to grant the indulgence, and to prolong its poor existence. , But, sir, although there are fears, there are hopes also. The people have preserved this, their own chosen Constitu- tion, for forty years, and have seen their happiness, pros- perity and renown, grow with its growth, and strengthen with its strength. They are now, generally, strongly attached to it. Overthown by direct assault, it cannot be ; evaded, undermined, nullified, it will not be, if we, and those who shall succeed us here, as agents and represen- tatives of the people, shall conscientiously and vigilantly discharge the two great branches of our public trust — faith- fully to preserve, and wisely to adminster it. Mr. President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dis- sent to the doctrines which have been advanced and main- tained. I am conscious of having detained you, and the senate, much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and I have not been willing to sup- press the utterance of its spontaneous sentiments. I cannot, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, without express- ing, once more, my deep conviction, that sin6e it respects nothing less than the Union of the States, it is of the most vital and essential importance to the public happiness. I 235 profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honour of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached, only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings : and although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant, that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise ; God grant, that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonoured fragments of a once glorious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and honoured throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a 236 stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured — bear- ing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as — What is all this worth ? Nor those other words of delusion and folly — Liberty first, and Union afterwards — but every where, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart — Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable ! MUTUAL FORBEARANCE NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE. Cowper. The lady thus address'd her spouse— " What a mere dungeon is this house ! By no means large enough ; and was it, Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene, They overwhelm me with the spleen." Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark : " No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, Engag'd myself to be at home, And shall expect him at the door, Precisely when the clock strikes four." " You are so cteaf," the lady cried, And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside — " You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear ?" " Dismiss poor Harry !" he replies ; " Some people are more nice than wise. For one slight trespass all this stir ? What if he did ride whip and spur, 'T was but a mile — your fav'rite horse Will never look one hair the worse." " Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing" — " Child ! I am rather hard of hearing" — " Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl; I tell you, you can't hear at all \" orator's own book. 237 Then with a voice exceeding low, " No matter if you hear or no." Alas ! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd, To gratify a fretful passion, On every trivial provocation ? The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear ; And something, ev'ry day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive. But if infirmities, that fall In common to the lot of all, A blemish or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spar'd, Then farewell all that must create The comfort of the wedded state ; Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, And tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserv'd by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention ; But lives, when that exterior grace Which first inspir'd the flame, decays : 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind. All will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure ; But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession ; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. MOLOCH, THE FALLEN ANGEL, TO THE INFERNAL POWERS, INCITING THEM TO RENEW THE WAR. Milton. My sentence is for open war, of wiles More unexpert, I boast not; then let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now ; 238 orator's own book. For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit ling'ring here, Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny, who reigns By our delay ? No : let us rather choose, Arm'd with hell flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms, Against the tort'rer; when to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear Infernal thunder ; and for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels — and his throne itself, Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, His own invented torments. But perhaps, The way seems difficult and steep to scale, With upright wing, against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat ; descent and fall To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear, Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight, We sunk thus low ? Th' assent is easy then, Th' event is fear'd. Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find, To our destruction ; if there be in hell, Fear to be worse destroy'd : What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn' d In this abhorred deep to utter wo ; When pain of unextinguishable fire, Must exercise us without hope of end, The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the tort'ring hour Calls us to penance ? More destroy'd than thus We should be quite abolish'd and expire. What fear we then ? What doubt we to incense His utmost ire ? Which to the height enrag'd, orator's own book. 329 Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential, (happier far, Than miserable, to have eternal being) Or if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb this heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne ; Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. SPEECH OF BELIAL ADVISING PEACE. Milton. I should be much for open war, O peers, As not behind in hate, if what was urg'd Main reason to persuade immediate war, Did not dissuade the most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; When he who most excels in feats of arms, In what he counsels, and in what excels, Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fill'd With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions ; or with obscure wing, Scout far and wide, into the realm of night, Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way By force, and at our heels all hell should rise With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light — yet our great enemy, All incorruptible, would on his throne, Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair. We must exasperate Th' almighty victor to spend all his rage, And that must end us ; that must be our cure, 240 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. To be no more. Sad fate ! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion ! And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry foe Can give it, or will ever ? How he can, Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire Belike through impotence, or unaware, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger, whom his anger saves To punish endless ? Wherefore cease we then ? Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, Reserv'd and destin'd to eternal wo ; Whatever doing, what can suffer more, What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? What, when we fled amain, pursu'd and struck With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The deep to shelter us 1 This hell then seem'd A refuge from those wounds ; or when we lay Chain' d on the burning lake ? That sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, Awak'd, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames ? Or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us ? What if all Her stores were open'd, and this firmament Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, Impendent horrors, threat'ning hideous fall One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, Designing or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd Each on his rock transfix' d, the sport and prey Of wrecking whirlwinds, or forever sunk Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains : There to converse with everlasting groans, Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd, Ages of hopeless end ! This would be worse. War, therefore, open or conceal'd, alike My voice dissuades. orator's own book. 241 SPEECH OF LORD MANSFIELD, ON THE BILL FOR PREVENT- ING THE DELAYS OF JUSTICE BY CLAIMING THE PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT. 1770. My Lords, — When I consider the importance of this bill to your lordships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much of your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magnitude ; it is no less than to take away from two-thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privi- leges and immunities, of which they have long been pos- sessed. Perhaps there is no situation which the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying, as where it is made a judge in its own cause. There is some- thing implanted in the breast of man, so attached to itself, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situ- ation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with jus- tice, has ever been held as the summit of all human virtue. The bill now in question puts your lordships in this very predicament ; and I doubt not but the wisdom of your deci- sion will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice are in opposite scales, the latter will ever prepon- derate with your lordships. Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; and indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this country, that the members of both houses should be free in their persons in cases of civil suits ; for there may come a time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire may depend upon their attendance in parliament. God forbid that I should advise any measure that would in future endanger the state : but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, no such tendency, for it expressly secures the persons of members of either house in all civil suits. This being the case, I confess, when 1 see many noble lords, for whose judgment I have a very great respect, standing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : I would not wish to insinuate that private interest has the least weight in their determinations. This bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently 21 242 miscarried ; but it was always lost in the lower house. Little did I think when it had passed the commons, that it possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall it be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the na- tion, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it, justice ! — I am sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays, that are every day occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privi- lege, they would not, nay, they could not, oppose this bill. I have waited with patience to hear what arguments might be urged against the bill ; but I have waited in vain. The truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice, the expediency of this bill is such, as renders it self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature that can neither be weakened by argument, nor entangled with sophis- try. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble lords on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they thought from us. They not only decreed that privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the sitting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the very servants of mem- bers. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ancestors ; it might perhaps appear invidious, and is not necessary in the present case. I shall only say, that the noble lords that flatter them- selves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as circumstances alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable, either for masters or ser- vants, to run in debt, as it is at present ; nor, formerly, were merchants and manufacturers members of parliament, as at present. The case now is very different ; both merchants and manufacturers are, with great propriety, elected mem- bers of the lower house. Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of the kingdom, privileges must be done away. We all know that the very soul and essence of trade are regular payments ; and sad experience teaches us, that there are men, who will not make their regular payments without the compressive power of the laws. The law, then, ought to be equally open to all ; any exemption to particular men, 243 or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature. But I will not trouble your lordships with arguments for that, which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much inconveniency from the persons of their servants being liable to be arrested. One noble lord observes, that the coachman of a peer may be arrested while he is driving his master to the house, and consequently, he will not be able to attend his duty in parliament. If this was actually to happen, there are so many methods by which the member might still get to the house, 1 can hardly think the noble lord is serious in his objection. Another noble peer -said, that by this bill they might lose their most valuable and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradiction in terms ; for he can nei- ther be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt, which he is neither able nor willing to pay, until com- pelled by law. If my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has got in debt, and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the debt. But upon no principle of liberal legislation whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest trades- man may be torn from his family, and locked up in gaol. It is monstrous injustice! I flatter myself, however, the determination of this day will entirely put an end to all such partial proceedings for the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your lordships consideration. I now eome to speak upon what, indeed, I would have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by after-ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race — to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine ; but if that noble lord means that mushroom popularity, which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. 1 defy the noble lord to point out a single action in my life, where the popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God I have a more permament and steady rule for my conduct — the dictates of my own breast. Those that have forgone that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the 244 orator's own book. slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity: I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received their execrations the next: and many, who by the popularity of the times have been heM up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's page, where truth has tri- umphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty. Why, then, the noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular ; it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular, to com- pel people to pay their debts ; and in that case the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular, nei- ther, to take away any of the privileges of parliament ; for I very well remember, and many of your lordships may remember, that not long ago, the popular cry was for the extension of privileges ; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said, that privilege protected members even in criminal actions : nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with this doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine : I thought so then, and think so still ; but, nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the friends of liberty — how deservedly, time will show. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally admin- istered to all — to the king and to the beggar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, that protects a member of parliament more than any other man from the punishment due to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow of no place nor employment to be a sanctuary for crimes ; and where I have the honour to sit as a judge, neither royal favour nor popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordship's time ; and am sorry a bill, fraught with so good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate; but I doubt not your lordships' determination will convince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with your lordships but very little support. orator's own book. 245 LADY RANDOLPH S SOLILOQUY, LAMENTING THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND AND CHILD. Home. Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart — Farewell a while, I will not leave you long For, in your shades, I deem some spirit dwells, Who, from the chiding stream, and groaning oak, Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan. Oh, Douglass ! Douglass ! if departed ghosts Are e'er permitted to review this world, Within the circle of that wood thou art ; And with the passion of immortals hear'st My lamentation ! hear 'st thy wretched wife Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn, Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. To thee I lift my voice, to thee address The plaint which mortal ear has never heard. Oh ! disregard me not. Though I am call'd Another's now, my heart is wholly thine. Incapable of change, affection lies Buried, my Douglass, in thy bloody grave. Tragedy of Douglass. SPEECH OF HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS, AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR. Shakspeare. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall up with the English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility ; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard favour'd rage j Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; Let it pry o'er the portage of the head Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it ? 21* 246 orator's own book. And fearfully as doth the galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide ; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To its full height. Now on you noblest English, Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war-proof; Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought, And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest That those whom you call fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George ! Henry V. THE BELL OF ST. REGIS. Mrs. Sigourney. In 1704, when Deerfield was taken by the Indians, a small church-bell was carried away on a sledge as far as Lake Champlain and buried. It was afterwards taken up and conveyed to Canada. The red men came in their pride and wrath, Deep vengeance fired their eye, And the blood of the white was in their path, And the flame from his roof rose high. Then down from the burning church they tore The bell of tuneful sound, And on with their captive train they bore That wonderful thing toward their native shore, The rude Canadian bound. 247 But now and then, with a fearful tone, It struck on their startled ear — And sad it was, 'mid the mountains lone, Or the ruined tempest mutter' d moan, That terrible voice to hear. It seemed like the question that stirs the soul Of its secret good or ill, And they quaked as its stern and solemn toll Re-echoed from rock to hill. And they started up in their broken dream, 'Mid the lonely forest-shade, And thought that they heard the dying scream, And saw the blood of slaughter stream Afresh through the village glade. Then they sat in council, those chieftains old, And a mighty pit was made, Where the lake with its silver waters rolled They buried that bell 'neath the verdant mould, And crossed themselves and prayed. And there till a stately powow came It slept in its tomb forgot, With a mantle of fur, and a brow of flame He stood on that burial spot : They wheeled the dance with its mystic round At the stormy midnight hour, And a dead man's hand on his breast he bound, And invoked, ere he broke that awful ground, The demons of pride and power. Then he raised the bell, with a nameless rite, Which none but himself might tell, In blanket and bear-skin he bound it tight, And it journeyed in silence both day and night, So strong was that magic spell. It spake no more, till St. Regis's tower In northern skies appeared, And their legends extol that powow's power Which lulled that knell like the poppy flower, As conscience now slumbereth a little hour In the cell of a heart that 's seared. 248 orator's own book. DAYBREAK. Dana. " The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun rising; the name of the chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang." Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long, In fiery armour, up the heavens high Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song. Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh. Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye ; And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him " Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st, " as earth grows bright? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source ? With creatures innocent thou must, perforce, A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, Of ills and pains of life, must be the cure, And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure." I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red ; Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew ; And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread With dusky light, which warmth nor comfort shed. Still — save the bird that scarcely lifts its song — The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead— The silent city emptied of its throng, And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil and strife, With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth With discord strange, and all that man calls life. With thousand scattered beauties nature 's rife ; And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies : — - Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties : He, feverish, blinded lives, and, feverish, sated dies, 249 And 'tis because man useth so amiss Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad ; Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this, Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, From her fair face ? — It is that man is mad ! Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine, When Nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. Thou look'st towards earth, but yet the heavens are thine ; While 1 to earth am bound : When will the heavens be mine ? If man would but his finer nature learn, And not in life fantastic lose the sense Of simpler things ; could Nature's features stern Teach him be thoughtful : then, with soul intense, I should not yearn for God to take me hence, But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed, Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence : But when I see cold man of reason proud, My solitude is sad — I 'm lonely in the crowd. But not for this alone, the silent tear Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, Nor for this solemn hour ; — fresh life is near, — But all my joys! — they died when newly born. Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn, And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye, Shall see them pass. Breathe calm — my spirit's torn: Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high! — Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. And when I grieve, O, rather let it be That I — whom Nature taught to sit with her On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea — Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur To my strong spirit ; — who, as mine own child, Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur A beauty see — that I this mother mild Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild. How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft Shot 'thwart the earth !— in crown of living fire Up comes the Day ! — as if they conscious quaffed The sunny flood, hill, forest city, spire 250 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain Desire ! The dusky lights have gone ; go thou thy way ! And pining Discontent, like them, expire ! Be called my chamber, Peace, when ends the day, And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray ! MICIPSA TO JUGURTHA. SallusU You know, Jugurtha ! that I received you under my pro- tection in your early youth, when left a helpless and hope- less orphan. I advanced you to high honours in my king- dom, in the full assurance that you would prove grateful for my kindness to you ; and that, if I came to have children of my own, you would study to repay to them what you owed to me. Hitherto I have had no reason to repent of my favours to you. For, to omit all former instances of your extraordinary merit, your late behaviour in the Numan- tian war has reflected upon me, and my kingdom, a new and distinguished glory. You have, by your valour, rendered the Roman commonwealth, which before was well affected to our interest, much more friendly. In Spain, you have raised the honour of my name and crown. And you have surmounted what is justly reckoned one of the greatest diffi- culties ; having by your merit, silenced envy. My dissolu- tion seems now to be fast approaching. I therefore beseech and conjure you, my dear Jugurtha, by this right hand ; by the remembrance of my past kindness to you ; by the honour of my kingdom, and by the majesty of the gods ; be kind to my two sons whom my favour to you has made your brothers ; and do not think of forming a connection with any stranger to the prejudice of your relations. It is not by arms, nor by treasures, that a kingdom is secured ; but by well affected subjects and allies. And it is by faithful and important services, that friendship (which neither gold will purchase, nor arms extort) is secured. But what friend- ship is more perfect, than that which ought to obtain be- tween brothers ? What fidelity can be expected among strangers, if it is wanting among relations ? The kingdom, I leave you, is in good condition, if you govern it properly ; if otherwise, it is weak. For by agreement a small state increases : by division a great one falls into ruin. It will lie 251 upon you, Jugurtha, who are come to riper years than your brothers, to provide that no misconduct produce any bad effect. And, if any difference should arise between you and your brothers (which may the gods avert!) the public will charge you, however innocent you may be, as the aggressor, because your years and abilities give you the superiority. But I firmly persuade myself, that you will treat them with kindness, and that they will honour and esteem you, as your distinguished virtue deserves. THE HOSPITALITY AND THE REVENGE OF THE INDIAN. Speech of Logan, a Mingo Chief, to Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia— 1774. 1 appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat : if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, "Logan is the friend of white men." I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it ; I have killed many ; I have fully glutted my vengeance : for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ? — Not one. THE RAPID MARCH OF CIVILIZATION. Extract from a Speech of an Indian Chief to the Provincial Congress, in New England, April 11th, 1775. Brothers ! we have heard you speak by your letter — we thank you for it — we now make answer. Brothers ! you remember when you first came over the great waters, I was 252 orator's own book. great and you were little, very small. I then took you in for a friend, and kept you under my arms, so that no one might injure you ; since that time we have ever been true friends; there has never been any quarrel between us. But now our conditions are changed. You are become great and tall. You reach to the clouds. You are seen all round the world. I am become small, very little. I am not so high as your heel. Now you take care of me, and I look to you for protection. Brothers ! I am sorry to hear of this great quarrel between you and Old England. It appears that blood soon must be shed to end this quarrel. We never, till this day, understood the foundation of this quarrel be- tween you and the country you came from. Brothers ! whenever I see your blood running, you will soon find me about you, to revenge my brother's blood. Although I am low and very small, I will gripe hold of your enemy's heel, that he cannot run so fast and so light as if he had nothing at his heels. Brothers ! I would not have you think that we are falling back from our engagements. We are ready to do any thing for your relief, and shall be guided by your counsel. THE EFFECTS OF CIVILIZATION UPON THE INDIANS. Extract from the Speech of Red Jacket, an Indian Chief, to one of the Missionaries of the Missionary Society. Friend and Brother, — It was the will of the Great Spirit that we should meet together this day. He orders all things, and has given us a fine day for our Council. He has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened, that we see clearly ; our ears are unstopped, that we have been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken. For all these favours we thank the Great Spirit, and Him only. Brother — Listen to what we say. There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the orator's own book. 253 country, and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this He had done for his red children, because he loved them. If we had some disputes about our hunting ground, they were generally set- tled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day came upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, and landed on this island. Their numbers were small, They found friends and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own country, for fear of wicked men, and had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small seat. We took pity on them, granted their request; and they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat ; they gave us poison in return. The white people had now found our country. Tidings were carried back, and more came amongst us. Yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They called us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. They wanted more land ; they wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, and many of our people were destroyed. They also brought strong liquor amongst us. It was strong and powerful, and has slain thousands. Brother — you have now heard our answer to your talk, and this is all we have to say at present. As we are going to part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return you safe to your friends. FALSTAFF S SOLILOQUY ON HONOUR. Shakspeare. Owe heaven a death ! 'Tis not due yet; and I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so for- ward with him that calls not on me ? Well, 't is no matter — honour pricks me on. But how, if honour pricks me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set a leg? No; or an arm ? No ; or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is honour ? A word. What is that word honour ? Air ; a trim reckoning. Who hath it ? He that died a Wednesday. Doth 22 254 he feel it 1 No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. There- fore, I '11 none of it. Honour is a mere 'scutcheon — and so ends my catechism.— Henry iv. PART OF THE SOLILOQUY OF RICHARD III, THE NIGHT PRECED- ING THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH. Shakspeare. 'Tis now the dead of night, and half the world Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung ; Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me) With all the weary courtship of My care-tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed, Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with overwatch- ing I '11 forth, and walk awhile. The air's refreshing, And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour. How awful is this gloom ! And hark ! from camp to camp The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch ! Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighings, Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark ! From the tents, The armorers, accomplishing the knights, With clink of hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation : while some, Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch, With patience sit, and inly ruminate The morning's danger. By yon Heaven, my stern Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night, Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp So tediously away. I '11 to my couch, And once more try to sleep her into morning. THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE. Shakspeare, All the world 's a stage : And all the men and women, merely players. They have their exits and their entrances ; ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 255 And one man, in his time, plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then the whining School-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping, like snail, Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd ; With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ; Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second Childishness, and mere oblivion ; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Irving. In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he eannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men 256 orator's own book. more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England, than they are in any other country ; and why the latter have endured so many exces- sive pressures and extremities, without repining more gene- rally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature : the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature, that abound in the British poets — that have continued down from " the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occu- pations, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be mono- tonous, were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is stud- ded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is asso- ciated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom, orator's own book. 257 Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows, rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preserva- tion — its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, the quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath lead- ing from the church-yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorable right of way — the neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by trees, under which the fore- fathers of the present race have sported — the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene — all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary transmis- sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellish- ments which their own hands have spread around them. It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affec- tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remark- able felicity. Through each gradation, from the castled hall, __ The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'ring 1 middle life, Down to the cottag'd vale, and straw-roof'd shed, 22* 258 This western isle has long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling- place : Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove, (Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth ; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving Heaven. That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. HANNIBAL S ADDRESS TO SCIPIO AFRICANUS, AT THEIR INTER- VIEW PRECEDING THE BATTLE OF ZAMA. Hooke. Since fate has so ordained it, that I, who begun the war, and who have been so often on the point of ending it by a complete conquest, should now come of my own motion to ask a peace, I am glad that it is of you, Scipio, I have the fortune to ask it. Nor will this be among the least of your glories, that Hannibal, victorious over so many Roman gen- erals, submitted at last to you. I could wish, that our fathers and we had confined our ambition within the limits which nature seems to have pre- scribed to it ; the shores of Africa, and the shores of Italy. The gods did not give us that mind. On both sides we have been so eager after foreign possessions, as to put our own to the hazard of war. Rome and Carthage have had, each in her turn, the enemy at her gates. But since errors past may be more easily blamed than corrected, let it now be the work of you and me to put an end, if possible to the obstinate contention. For my own part, my years, and the experience I have had of the instability of fortune, inclines me to leave nothing to her determination, which reason can decide. But much I fear, Scipio, that your youth, your want of the like experience, your uninterrupted success, may ren- der you adverse from the thoughts of peace. He whom fortune has never failed, rarely reflects upon her inconstancy. Yet, without recurring to former examples, my own may perhaps suffice to teach you moderation. I am that same Hannibal, who after my victory at Cannae, became master of the greatest part of your country, and deliberated with orator's own book. 259 myself what fate I should decree to Italy and Rome. And now — see the change ! Here, in Africa, I am come to treat with a Roman, for my own preservation and my conntry's. Such are the sports of fortune ! Is she then to be trusted because she smiles ? An advantageous peace is preferable to the hope of victory. The one is in your own power, the other at the pleasure of the gods. Should you prove vic- torious, it would add little to your own glory, or the glory of your country ; if vanquished, you lose in one hour all the honour and reputation you have been so many years acquir- ing. But what is my aim in all this ? — that you should con- tent yourself with our cession of Spain, Sicily, Sardinia, and all the islands between Italy and Africa. A peace on these conditions will, in my opinion, not only secure the future tranquillity of Carthage, but be sufficiently glorious for you, and for the Roman name. And do not tell me, that some of our citizens dealt fraudulently with you in the late treaty- it is I, Hannibal, that now ask a peace : I ask it, because I think it expedient for my country ; and, thinking it expe- dient, I will inviolably maintain it. THE PIG. Smart. In every age and each profession, Men err the most by prepossession ; But when the thing is clearly shown, And fairly stated, fully known, We soon applaud what we deride, And penitence succeeds to pride. — A certain baron on a day, Having a mind to show away, Invited all the wits and wags, Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs, And built a large commodious stage, For the choice spirits of the age ; But above all, among the rest, There came a genius who profess'd To have a curious trick in store, Which never was perform'd before. Through all the town this soon got air, And the whole house was like a fair ; 260 orator's own book. But soon his entry as he made, Without a prompter or parade, 'Twas all expectance, all suspense, And silence gagg'd the audience. He hid his head behind his wig, And with such truth took off a pig, All swore 'twas serious, and no joke; For doubtless underneath his cloak He had conceal' d some grunting elf, Or was a real hog himself. A search was made, no pig was found— With thundering claps the seats resound, And pit, and box, and galleries roar, With — " O rare ! bravo !" and " encore I" Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, Who yet knew something of the town, Beheld the mimic and his whim, And on the morrow challeng'd him, Declaring to each beau and bunter, That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter. The morrow came — the crowd was greater — But prejudice and rank ill-nature Usurp' d the minds of men and wenches, Who came to hiss and break the benches. The mimic took his usual station, And squeak'd with general approbation. Again, "encore! encore !" they cry — ■ 'T was quite the thing — 'twas very high. Old Grouse conceal'd amidst the racket, A real pig beneath his jacket — Then forth he came — and with his nail He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. — The tortur'd pig from out his throat Produc'd the genuine natural note. All bellowM out — 'twas very sad ! Sure never stuff was half so bad ! " That like a pig!" — each cried in scoff — "Pshaw! nonsense! blockhead! off! off! off!' The mimic was extoll'd, and Grouse Was hiss'd, and catcall' d from the house. — "Soft ye, a word before I go," Quoth honest Hodge — and stooping low. 261 Produc'dthe pig, and thus aloud Bespoke the stupid, partial crowd : " Behold, and learn from this poor creature, How much you critics know of nature." THE OCEAN. Drummond. Perhaps no scene or situation is so intensely gratifying to the naturalist as the shore of the ocean. The productions of the latter element are innumerable, and the majesty of the mighty waters lends an interest unknown to an inland landscape. The loneliness too of the sea-shore is much cheered by the constant changes arising from the ebb and flow of the tide, and the undulations of the water's surface, sometimes rolling like mountains, and again scarcely murmuring on the beach. As you gather there Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow, you may feel with the poet, that there are joys in solitude, and that there are pleasures to be found in the investigation of nature of the most powerful and pleasing influence. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar. But nothing can be more beautiful than a view of the bot- tom of the ocean, during a calm, even round our own shores, but particularly in tropical climates, especially when it con- sists alternately of beds of sand and masses of rock. The water is frequently so clear and undisturbed, that, at great depths, the minutest objects are visible ; groves of coral are seen expanding their variously-coloured clumps, some rigid and immoveable, and others waving gracefully their flexile branches. Shells of every form and hue glide slowly along the stones, or cling to the coral boughs like fruit ; crabs and other marine animals pursue their prey in the crannies of the rocks, and sea-plants spread their limber leaves in gay and gaudy irregularity, while the most beauti- ful fishes are on every side sporting around. 262 The floor is of sand, like the mountain-drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there ; And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of the upper air : There, with its waving blade of green. The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter j There with a light and easy motion And fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea, And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; And life in rare and beautiful forms Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own : And when the ship from his fury flies Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, "When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore, Then far below in the peaceful sea The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly Through the bending twigs of the coral-grove. Percival. THE CEREMONIAL. " Sir, will you please to walk before ?" " — No, pray, sir — you are next the door." " — Upon mine honour I '11 not stir — " " Sir, I'm at home; consider, sir — " " Excuse me, sir ; I'll not go first," " Well, if I must be rude, I must — But yet I wish I could evade it — 'T is strangely clownish be persuaded — Go forward, cits ! go forward, 'squires ! Nor scruple each what each admires. Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding; It flies while you display your breeding ; Such breeding as one's granam preaches, Or some old dancing-master teaches. 263 Or for some rude tumultuous fellow, Half crazy, or at least, half mellow, To come behind you unawares, And fairly push you both down stairs ! But Death's at hand — let me advise ye, Go forward, friends ! or he '11 surprise ye. Besides, how insincere you are ! Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear, And daily cheat, and weekly pray, And all for this — to lead the way ? ADDRESS TO HIS ELBOW-CHAIR, NEW CLOTHED. Somerville, My dear companion, and my faithful friend ! If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend ; If stones and rubbish, at Amphion's call, Danc'd into form and built the Thebian wall, Why should 'st not thou attend my humble lays, And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise ? True, thou art spruce and fine, a very beau ! But what are trappings and external show ? To real worth alone I make my court ; Knaves are my scorn, and coxcombs are my sport. Once I beheld thee far less trim and gay, Ragged disjointed, and to worms a prey ; The safe retreat of every lurking mouse ; Derided, shunn'd ; the lumber of my house. Thy robe how chang'd from what it was before ! Thy velvet robe, which pleas'dmy sires of yore ! 'Tis thus capricious fortune wheels us round ; Aloft we mounts— then tumble to the ground. Yet grateful then, my constancy I prov'd ; I knew thy worth ; my friend in rags I lov'd : I lov'd thee more ; nor, like a courtier, spurn'd My benefactor when the tide was turn'd. With conscious shame, yet frankly, I confess, That in my youthful days — I lov'd thee less. Where vanity, where pleasure call'd I stray'd, And every wayward appetite obey'd : But sage experience taught me how to prize Myself, and how this world : she bade me rise 264 orator's own book. To nobler flights, regardles of a race Of factious emmets ; pointed where to place My bliss, and lodg'd me in thy soft embrace. Here on thy yielding down I sit secure, And patiently, what Heav'n has sent endure ; From all the futile cares of business free, Not fond of life, but yet content to be : Here mark the fleeting hours, regret the past, And seriously prepare to meet the last. So safe on shore the pension'd sailor lies, And all the malice of the storm defies ; With ease of body bless'd, and peace of mind, Pities the restless crew he left behind ; Whilst in his cell he meditates alone On his great voyage to the world unknown. CLOSE OF MR. BROUGHAM'S SPEECH ON THE REFORM BILL. Your Lordships may pass this bill, and then we shall have peace and contentment ; but I much dread that it may be refused, and that you may be induced, under other minis- ters, in less auspicious times, to grant a far more extensive measure than that which is now proposed. Oh, my lords, let the old illustration of the Sibyl, never be forgotten by you. On no one question of practical politics has it so direct a bearing as on this. You have now offered to you the volume of peace. The price that you are called upon by that prophetic Sibyl to pay is, to restore under great modifications, the old fabric of the representative constitution. You will not take the volume — you will not pay that price — that moderate price! The Sibyl darkens your doors no longer. You repent — you call her back — she returns — the leaves of peace are half torn out, and it is no longer the volume that first was offered ; but she demands a still larger price, and you must pay for it with parliaments by the year, elections by millions, and voting by ballot ; you will not pay that price, and again you send her away. What the next price which she will demand, and that you must pay, is more than I will say. This I know, as sure as man is man, and human error leads to human disappoint- 265 merit, justice delayed, wisdom postponed, must enhance the price of peace. My lords, there is an awful consideration connected with this subject. You are judges in the highest court in the last resort; and it is the first office of a judge never to decide even the most trifling case, without hearing every thing. But in this case you are going to decide with- out a hearing, without a trial. My lords, beware of standing out on this sacred subject. You may obstruct, you may put off the day, you may give a temporary life to the borough-jobber, and postpone the elective franchise to the greatest towns of the realm ; but, my lords, that delay will have no effect in raising the respect of this house, and in conciliating the affections of the people of this country. My lords, I wish you, because I belong to you, because I am a good subject of the king, because I am a friend to my country, but, above all, because my whole life has been devoted to obtain, confirm, and perpetuate peace abroad and at home, I wish you, nay, by all these reasons, and by all these motives, I pray and beseech you not thus to reject this -bill ? I call on you by all you hold most dear, I call on every one except those who think no reform necessary, and they alone can give a consistent vote against the bill. I call on you by this solemn appeal, and remember, my lords, I am in the same vessel as yourselves, I call on you, I entreat you, and on my bended knees I implore you not to reject this bill. A MOTHER S DEATH. Crabbe. Then died lamented, in the strength of life, A valued mother and a faithful wife ; Called not away, when time had loosed each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold ; But when to all that knit us to our kind, She felt fast bound, as charity can bind ; — Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, The drooping spirit for its fate prepare ; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart , — 23 266 orator's own booic. But all her ties the strong invader broke, In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke : Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew, till every hope was gone : Still those around appeared for hope to seek ! But viewed the sick and were afraid to speak. Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead : — When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed — My part began ; a crowd drew near the place, Awe in each eye, alarm in every face : So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind, That fear, with pity, mingled in each mind ; Friends with the husband came, their griefs to blend ; For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. The last-born boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, but cries expressed his fear ; Each different age and sex revealed its pain, In now a louder, now a lower strain ; While the meek father listening to their tones, Swelled the full cadence of the grief by groans. The elder sister strove her pangs to hide, And soothing words to younger minds applied : " Be still, be patient," oft she strove to say; But failed as oft, and weeping turned away. Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill, The village lads stood melancholy still ; And idle children, wandering to-and-fro, As nature guided, took the tone of wo. Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, In every place — where she, no more was found ; The seat at table she was wont to fill; The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still; The garden-walks, a labour all her own ; The lattice-bower with trailing shrubs o'ergrown ; The Sunday-pew, she fill'd with all her race ; Each place of her's was now a sacred place, That while it called up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise. 267 queen Margaret's address to the lords, before the BATTLE OF TEWKSBURY. Shakspeare. Third part of Henry VL Act 5, Scene 4. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard, The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, And half our sailors swallowed in the flood t Yet lives our pilot still ; Is 't meet, that he Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad. With tearful eyes add water to the sea, And give more strength to that which hath too much ; Whiles in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have sav'd? Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! Say Warwick was our anchor ; what of that 1 And Montague our top-mast ; what of him ? Our slaughter'd friends the taekles ; what of these ? Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? And Somerset another goodly mast ? The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I ? For once allowed the skilful pilot's charge ? We will not from the helm, to sit and weep ; But keep our course, though the rough wind say — No, From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck. As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair. And what is Edward, but a ruthless sea ? What Clarence, but a quicksand of deceit ? And Richard, but a ragged fatal rock ? All these the enemies to our poor bark. Say you can swim; alas/ 'tis but a while: Tread on the sand ; why there you quickly sink : Bestride the rock ; the tide will wash you off, Or else you famish, that's a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to let you understand, In case some one of you would fly from us, That there's no hop'd-for mercy with the brothers, More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks. Why, courage, then ! what cannot be avoided, 'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear f Safe* 268 PUBLIC FAITH. — Ames. To expatiate on the value of public faith may pass with some men for declamation — to such men I have nothing to say. To others I will urge — can any circumstance mark upon a people more turpitude and debasement ? Can any thing tend more to make men think themselves mean, or degrade to a lower point their estimation of virtue, and their standard of action ? It would not merely demoralize mankind, it tends to break all the ligaments of society, to dissolve that mysterious charm which attracts individuals to the nation, and to inspire in its stead a repulsive sense of shame and disgust. What is patriotism ? Is it narrow affection for the spot where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener ? No, sir, this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's honour. Every good citizen makes that honour his own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it. For, what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviola- ble, when a state renounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dishonoured in his own ? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent ? The sense of having one would die within him ; he would blush for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native land. I see no exception to the respect, that is paid among nations to the law of good faith. If there are cases in this enlightened period, when it is violated, there are none when it is decried. It is the philosophy of politics, the religion of orator's own book. 269 government. It is observed by barbarians — a whiff of to- bacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely binding force, but sanctity to treaties. Even in Algiers, a truce may be bought for money ; but when ratified, even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul its obligation. Thus we see, neither the ignorance of savages, nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine, permit a nation to despise its engagements. If, sir, there «ould be a resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the victims of justice could live again, collect together and form a society, they would, however loath, soon find themselves obliged to make justice, that justice under which they fell, the funda? mental law of their state. They would perceive, it was their interest to make others respect, and they would there- fore soon pay some respect themselves to the obligations of good faith. It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the supposition that America should furnish the occasion of this opprobrium. No, let me not even imagine, that a republican government, sprung, as our own is, from a people enlight- ened and imcorrupted, a government whose origin is right, and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon solemn debate, make its option to be faithless — can dare to act what despots dare not avow. THE RESPONSIBILITY DEVOLVING ON THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. Extract from a Discourse delivered at Yale College, Nov. 29, 1827, by Professor Eleazer T, Fitch, The world, my friends, is before us, as Americans, pre- senting its claims. Here the experiment is happily begun, whether a nation may not perpetuate its existence and pros- perity with free institutions ; and the people who groan in bondage, or sigh for more liberal measures in other nations, look hither for sympathy and encouragement, and for the dawning of a brighter day. They watch anxiously the is- sues of an experiment which is the world's last hope for the success of freedom. If we are so unfaithful as to alienate these blessings from our land, and cause God who has con- ferred them to withdraw from us in indignation ; if, I say, the experiment fails in our hands : what despondency must 23 * 270 orator's own book. weigh down the hearts of all the friends of freedom in the earth ! They will reproach us with their doom, as they descend into a dark and hopeless night of despotism. And our shame shall be recorded on the annals of the world, as an ungrateful republic which thrusted from her the richest boon of Heaven. Posterity appear before us, urging their claims. We hold in trust the privileges of their birth-right. If we alien- ate the precious trust, how will they reproach our memories that we robbed them of their inheritance ! My friends, enlightened piety is, under God, the hope of this nation. Let the sentiment be deeply engraven on your hearts, that the American citizen must honour the God of his fathers, if he would effectually consult the welfare of his country. And to you, who are preparing for important influence, and are soon to enter upon responsible stations in this community, the subject is addressed with peculiar force. "With you,, are soon to be deposited the hopes of other generations. If you, and the generation who are rising upon the stage of life with you, shall in your various stations, wait on God and fulfil your appointed duties, the God of our fathers will bless you. Jehovah shall dwell in the land, its glory and defence. Iniquity shall retire at his presence, with her train of deform- ity and crime. The hearts of all shall be blessed with unity and joy. And from the Atlantic to the Pacific, the unnum- bered millions yet to inhabit this continent, shall rejoice in inheriting the rich legacy of your institutions. THE OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. Extract from an Oration delivered at Plymouth, December 22, 1824, by Edward Everett. When we think, my friends, of the history of the South American states, by what people many of them have been colonized, and what is their present state, who is there that is not grateful in the contrast which our history presents ? Who does not feel, what reflecting American does not ac- knowledge, the incalculable advantages derived to this land, out of the deep fountains of civil, intellectual, and moral truth, from which we have drawn in England ? What Ameri- can does not feel proud that he is descended from the coun- trymen of Bacon, of Newton and of Locke ? Who does not 271 know, that while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our fathers ; the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of free principles struggled into existence here, constantly found encouragement and countenance from the sons of liberty there ? — Who does not remember that when the pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their disper- sion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western skies ? And who will ever forget that in that eventful strug- gle, which severed this mighty empire from the British crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham, within the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of the British throne ? — No, for myself, 1 can truly say, that after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that from which we are sprung. In touching the soil of England, I seem to return like a descendant to the old family seat ; — to come back to the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native language beyond the sea, is a music to my ear, beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, or Castilian majesty, — I am not yet in the land of strangers, while surrounded by the manners, the habits, the forms, in which I have been brought up. I wander delighted through a thousand scenes, which the historians, the poets have made familiar to us, — of which the names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots, where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers ; the pleasant land of their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories of the great and good ; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled heralds of truth ; and richer as the parent of this land of promise in the west. 272 orator's own book. the suffering of the pilgrims. Extract from the same Oration. Let us now, my friends, advert to that period when our Pilgrim Fathers left their country and their homes for this then unknown shore. Methinks I see that one solitary, ad- venturous vessel, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pur- suing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuit- ous route ; — and now driven in fury before the raging tem- pest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The labouring masts seem straining from their base ; — the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; — the ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to bil- low ; — the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate under- taking, and landing at last, after a five months passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voy- age, — poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, — without shelter, — without means, — surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adven- turers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England ? Tell me politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winters's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children ? was it hard labour and spare meals ? — 273 was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep ma- lady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea ? was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- choly fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an ex- pansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ? VAIN BOASTING TREATED CONTEMPTUOUSLY. Shakspeare. Hotspur and Gkndoiver. Glen. Sit, cousin Percy ; sit, good cousin Hotspur ; For, by that name, as oft as Lancaster Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale ; and with A rising sigh, he wisheth you in Heav'n. Hot, And you in Hell, as often as he hears Owen Glendower spoken of. Glen. I blame him not : at my nativity, The front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets : know that, at my birth, The frame and the foundation of the earth Shook like a coward. Hot. So it would have done At the same season if your mother's cat Had kitten'd, though yourself had ne'er been born. Glen. I say the earth did shake when I was born. Hot. I say, the earth then was not of my mind ; If you suppose, as fearing you, it shook. Glen. The heav'ns were all on fire, the earth did tremble. Hot. O. then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions : and the teeming earth Is with a kind of cholic pinch' d and vex'd, By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb ; which, for enlargement striving, 274 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down High tow'rs and moss-grown steeples. At your birth, Our grandam earth, with this distemperature, In passion shook. Glen. Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings : give me leave To tell you once again, that at my birth The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes ; The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clam'rous in the frighted fields : These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show, I am not in the roll of common men. Where is he living, dipt in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland, Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? And bring him out, that is but woman's son, Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, Or hold me pace in deep experiments. Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welch. Glen. I can speak English, lord, as well as you. For I was train' d up in the English court ; Where, being young, I framed to the harp Many an English ditty, lovely well, And gave the tongue a helpful ornament ; A virtue that was never seen in you. Hot. Marry, and I 'm glad of it with all my heart, I had rather be a kitten and cry mew ! Than one of these same metre-ballad mongers ; I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turn'd, Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree, And that would nothing set my teeth on edge, Nothing so much as mincing poetry ; 'T is like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag. Glen. And I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man : But will they come when you do call for them ? Glen. Why, I can teach thee to command the devil. Hot. And I can teach thee, coz to shame the devil, By telling truth ; Tell truth and shame the devil. — If thou hast pow'r to raise him, bring him hither, And I '11 be sworn, I 've pow'r to shame him hence. Oh, while you live, Tell truth and shame the deviL orator's own book. 2?5 the death of charles james fox. Extract from Mr. Sheridan's Speech, to the Electors of Westminster, Sept. 18, 1806« I come now, gentlemen, with a very embarrassed feeling, to that declaration which I yet think you must have ex- pected from me, but which I make with reluctance, because, from the marked approbation I experienced from you, I fear with reluctance you will receive it. I feel myself under THE NECESSITY OF RETIRING FROM THIS CONTEST. I beseech you to hear me with patience^ and in the temper with which I address you. There is in true friendship this advantage ; the inferior mind looks to the presiding intellect as its guide and landmark while living, and to the engraven memory of its principles, as a rule of conduct, after its death. Yet fur- ther, still unmixed with idle superstition, there may be gained a salutary lesson from contemplating what would be grateful to the mind of the departed, were he conscious of what is passing here. I solemnly believe, that could such a consideration have entered into Mr. Fox's last moments, there is nothing his wasted spirits would so have deprecated, as a contest of the nature which I now disclaim and relin- quish. It was never ascertained to me until Monday last, after this meeting had been fixed, that Lord Percy would certainly be a candidate. My friends hesitated, in the hope that it might be left to arbitration, which candidate should withdraw. That hoped has failed. I claim the privilege of nearest and dearest friendship, to set the example of a sacri- fice — comparatively how small to what it demands ! Nothing could have induced me to have proceeded to a disputed poll on this occasion. — The hour is not far distant when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your reverend patriot, are passing through the streets to that sepulchral home, where your kings — your heroes — your sages — and your poets lie, and where they are to be honoured by the association of his noble remains — that hour, when, however the splendid gaudiness of public pageantry may be avoided, you — you — all of you will be self-marshaled in reverential sorrow, mute, and reflecting on your mighty loss. At that moment, shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the solemnity of the scene ? — Is it fitting that any man should overlook the 276 ORATOR S OWN BOOK. crisis, and risk the rude and monstrous contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man ? — Allow me to hope, from the manner in which you have received the little I have said on this subject, that I need add no more. SPEECH OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM BEFORE HIS EXE- CUTION. Shakspeare. King Henry VIII. Act 2, Scene 1. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day received a traitor's judgment, And by that name must die : Yet, heaven bear witness, And, if I have a conscience, let it sink me, Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful ! The law I bear no malice for my death, It has done, upon the premises, but justice : But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians : Be what they will, I heartily forgive them : Yet let them look* they glory not in mischief, Nor build their evils on the graves of great men; For then my guiltless blood must cry against them. For further life in this world I ne'er hope, Nor will 1 sue, although the king have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me, And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, His noble friends, and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; And as the long divorce f of steel falls on me, Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. * * * * All good people, Pray for me ! I must now forsake ye ; the last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell ' * * * * And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. * Let them see to it that they glory, &c. f Divorce, that which causes the divorcement or separation of the head from the body : divorce of steel, the axe. ORATOR S OWN BOOK. 277 APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. Byrox. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none 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 1 steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot 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 the 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, uncoffin'd, and unknown. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them, while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The 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 — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like the bubbles, onward : from a boy I wanton' d with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows, far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 24 278 OUR OBLIGATIONS TO THE OFFICERS OF THE REVOLUTION, AND OUR SYMPATHY DUE TO THEIR DESCENDANTS. Extract from the Speech of Edward Livingston, on a Bill for the relief of the Surviving Officers of the Army of the Revolution, delivered in the House of Representatives of the United States, January 15, 1827. Mr. Chairman, — I differ from the honourable gentle- man from Massachusetts, who says, no sympathy ought to be felt for the children of the deceased officers, who may be in want. They have not served us, it is true; but their fathers, who did, are beyond the reach of our gratitude, and the transfer of the feeling is natural and just. Public bene- fits bestowed on the children of the deceased father, encou- rage him who is alive, in the discharge of his duty, by the purest of all motives — paternal affection ; and that legislation must be unwise, indeed, that fails to enlist, in support of the state, all the best impulses of humanity. Let that republic get on as it can, where the veteran, blind, maimed and poor, like Belisarius, is forced to apply to public charity for sup- port ! Let that republic get on as it can, where contracts are broken, and public beneficence refused ; where nothing is given but what is in the bond — and that is frequently refused ! Let that republic get on as it can ! It will never produce any thing great ; its career will be short and inglo- rious ; its fall certain and unpitied ; its history remembered as a warning, not an example ; and the names of its legis- lators and statesmen, buried in the oblivion to which their false economy tends to consign the memory of those, who have established its freedom, or defended it from aggression. May ours show, by its decision on this bill, that it has a higher destiny, and that it is guarded as well by liberality and honour, as by justice. jENEAS TO QUEEN DIDO, GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE SACK OF TROY. — Virgil. All were attentive to the godlike man, When from his lofty couch, he thus began : — Great Queen ! What you command me to relate, Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; An empire from its old foundations rent, And ev'ry wo the Trojans underwent; orator's own book. 279 A pop'lous city made a desert place ; All that I saw and part of which I was, Not e'en the hardest of our foes could hear, Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 'T was now the dead of night, when sleep repairs Oar bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, When Hector's ghost before my sight appears ; Shrouded in blood he stood, and bath'd in tears ; Such as when, by the fierce Pelides slain, Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain. Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust Through the pierc'd limbs ; his body black with dust ; Unlike that Hector, who return' d from toils Of war triumphant, in iEacian spoils ; Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire, Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. His hair and beard were clotted stiff with gore : The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, Now stream'd afresh. I wept to see the visionary man ; And whilst my trance continu'd, thus began : — " O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! O long expected by thy friends ! From whence Art thou so late return' d to our defence ? Alas ! what wounds are these ? What new disgrace Deforms the manly honours of thy face ?" The spectre, groaning from his inmost breast, This warning, in these mournful words express' d : " Haste, goddess born! Escape, by timely flight, The flames and horrors of this fatal night ; Thy foes already have possess'd our wall ; Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. Enough is paid to Priam's royal name, Enough to country, and to deathless fame. If by a mortal arm my father's throne Could have been sav'd — this arm the feat had done. Troy now commends to thee her future state, And gives her gods companions of thy fate ; Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, And follow where thy various fortune calls." He said, and brought from forth the sacred choir, The gods and relics of th' immortal fire. 280 orator's own book. Now peals of shouts came thund'ring from afar Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. The noise approaches, though our palace stood Aloof from streets, embosom'd close with wood ; Louder and louder still I hear th' alarms Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. Fear broke my slumbers. I mount the terrace ; thence the town survey, And listen what the swelling sounds convey. Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear' d, And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd. The palace of Deiphobus ascends In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. Ucalegon burns next ; the seas are bright With splendours not their own, and shine with sparkling light. New clamours and new clangours now arise, The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. With frenzy seiz'd, I run to meet th' alarms, Resolv'd on death, resolv'd to die in arms. But first to gather friends, with whom t' oppose, If fortune favour' d, and repel the foes, By courage rous'd, by love of country fir'd, With sense of honour and revenge inspir'd. Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name, Had 'scap'd the Grecian swords, and pass'd the flame. With relics loaded, to my doors he fled, And by the hand his tender grandson led. " What hope, O Pantheus ? whither can we run ? Where make a stand ? Or, what can yet be done ?" Scarce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, " Troy is no more! Her glories now are gone. The fatal day, th' appointed hour is come, When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands : Our city's wrapt in flames ; the foe commands. To several posts their parties they divide ; Some block the narrow streets ; some scour the wide. The bold they kill ; th' unwary they surprise ; Who fights meets death; and death finds him who flies." orator's own book, 281 THE SETTLEMENT OF THE WESTERN STATES. Extract from the Speech of Mr. Webster, in the Senate of the United States, January 20th, 1830. Mr. President, — I now proceed, sir, to some of the opin- ions expressed by the gentleman from South Carolina. Two or three topics were touched by him, in regard to which he expressed sentiments in which I do not at all concur. In the first place, sir, the honourable gentleman spoke of the whole course and policy of the government towards those who have purchased and settled the public lands ; and seem- ed to think this policy wrong. He held it to have been, from the first, hard and rigorous ; he was of opinion, that the United States had acted towards those who had subdued the western wilderness, in the spirit of a step-mother; that the public domain had been improperly regarded as a source of revenue ; and that we had rigidly compelled payment for that which ought to have been given away. He said we ought to have followed the analogy of other governments, which had acted on a much more liberal system than ours, in planting colonies. He dwelt, particularly, upon the set- tlement of America by colonists from Europe ; and reminded us, that their governments had not exacted from those colo- nists payment for the soil ; with them, he said, it had been thought, that the conquest of the wilderness was, itself, an equivalent for the soil, and he lamented that we had not fol- lowed that example, and pursued the same liberal course towards our own emigrants to the West. Now, I do not admit, sir, that the analogy to which the gentleman refers us is just, or that the cases are at all simi- lar. There is no resemblance between the cases upon which a statesman can found an argument. The original North American colonists either fled from Europe, like our New England ancestors, to avoid persecution, or came hither at their own charges, and often at the ruin of their fortunes, as private adventurers. Generally speaking they derived neither succour nor protection from their govern- ments at home. Wide, indeed, is the difference between those cases and ours. From the very origin of the govern- ment, these western lands, and the just protection of those who had settled or should settle on them, have been the 34* 282 leading objects in our policy, and have led to expenditures, both of blood and treasure, not inconsiderable ; not indeed exceeding the importance of the object, and not yielded grudgingly, or reluctantly certainly ; but yet not incon- siderable, though necessary sacrifices, made for high proper ends. The Indian title has been extinguished at the expense of many millions. Is that nothing ? There is still a much more material consideration. These colonists, if we are to call them so, in passing the Alleghany, did not pass beyond the care and protection of their own government. Wherever they went, the public arm was still stretched over them. A parental government at home was still ever mindful of their condition and their wants ; and nothing was spared which a just sense of their necessities required. Is it forgotten, that it was one of the most arduous duties of the government in its earliest years, to defend the frontiers against the north- western Indians ? Are the sufferings and misfortunes under Harmar and St. Clair not worthy to be remembered ? Do the occurrences connected with these military efforts show an unfeeling neglect of western interests ? And here, sir, what becomes of the gentleman's analogy ? What English armies accompanied our ancestors to clear the forests of a barbarous foe ? What treasures of the Exchequer were ex- pended in buying up the original title to the soil ? What governmental arm held its iEgis over our fathers 7 heads as they pioneered their way in the wilderness ? Sir, it was not till General Wayne's victory, in 1794, that it could be said Ave had conquered the savages. It was not till that period, that the government could have considered itself as having established an entire ability to protect those who should un- dertake the conquest of the wilderness. And here, sir, at the epoch of 1794, let us pause, and survey the scene. It is now thirty-five years since that scene actually existed. Let us, sir, look back, and behold it. Over all that is now Ohio, there then stretched one vast wilderness, unbroken, except by two small spots of civilized culture, the one at Marietta, and the other at Cincinnati. At these little open- ings, hardly each a pin's point upon the map, the arm of the frontiersman had leveled the forest, and let in the sun. These little patches of earth, and themselves almost shadow- ed by the over-hanging boughs of that wilderness, which had stood and perpetuated itself, from century to century, 283 ever since the creation, were all, that had then been render- ed verdant by the hand of man. In an extent of hundreds, and thousands of square miles, no other surface of smiling green attested the presence of civilization. The hunter's path crossed mighty rivers, flowing in solitary grandeur, whose sources lay in remote and unknown regions of the wilderness. It struck, upon the north, on a vast inland sea, over which the wintry tempests raged as on the ocean ; all around was bare creation. It was fresh, untouched, unbound- ed, magnificent wilderness. And, sir, what is it now ? Is it imagination only, or can it possibly be fact, that presents such a change, as surprises and astonishes us, when we turn our eyes to what Ohio now is ? Is it reality, or a dream, that in so short a period even as thirty-five years, there has sprung up, on the same surface, an independent State, with a million of people ? A million of inhabitants ! an amount of population greater than that of all the cantons of Switzer- land ; equal to one third of all the people of the United States, when they undertook to accomplish their independence. This new member of the Republic has already left far be- hind her a majority of the old States. She is now by the side of Virginia and Pennsylvania ; and, in point of numbers, will, shortly admit no equal but New-York herself. If, sir, we may judge of measures by their results, what lessons do these facts read us, upon the policy of the government ? For my own part, while I am struck with wonder at the success, I also look with admiration at the wisdom and foresight which originally arranged and prescribed the system for the settlement of the public domain. Its operation has been, without a moment's interruption, to push the settlement of the western country to the full extent of our utmost means. CONCLUSION OF MR. HAYNE S SPEECH TN REPLY TO MR. WEBSTER. Mr. President, — When I took occasion, two days ago, to throw out some ideas with respect to the policy of the government, in relation to the public lands, nothing certainly could have been further from my thoughts, than that I should 284 orator's own book. be compelled again to throw myself upon the indulgence oi the senate. Little did I expect to be called upon to meet such an argument as was yesterday urged by the gentleman from Massachusetts.* Sir, I questioned no man's opinions : I impeached no man's motives : I charged no party, or state, or section of country, with hostility to any other ; but ventured, 1 thought, in a becoming spirit, to put forth my own sentiments in relation to a great national question of public policy. Such was my course. The gentleman from Missouri, it is true, had charged upon the Eastern States an early and continued hostility towards the West, and referred to a number of historical facts and documents in support of that charge. Now, sir, how have these different arguments" been met ? The honourable gentleman from Massachusetts, after deliberating a whole night upon his course, comes into this chamber to vindicate New-England ; and instead of making up his issue with the gentleman from Missouri, on the charges which he had preferred, chooses to consider me as the author of those charges, and, losing sight entirely of that gentleman, selects me as his adversary, and pours out all the vials of his mighty wrath upon my devoted head. Nor is he willing to stop here. He goes on to assail the institutions and policy of the South, and calls in question the principles and conduct of the state which I have the honour to represent. When I find a gentleman of mature age and experience — of acknowledged talents, and profound sagacity, pursuing a course like this, declining the contest offered from the West, and making war upon the unoffend- ing South, I must believe, I am bound to believe, he had some object in view that he has not ventured to disclose. Mr. President, why is this ? Has the gentleman discovered in former controversies with the gentleman from Missouri, that he is over-matched by that senator? And does he hope for an easy victory over a more feeble adversary ? Has the gentleman's distempered fancy been disturbed by gloomy forebodings of " new alliances to be formed," at which he hinted ? Has the ghost of the murdered Coalition come back, like the ghost of Banquo, to " sear the eye-balls of the gentleman," and will he not " down at his bidding?" Are dark visions of broken hopes, and honours lost forever, stiU * Mr. Webster. orator's own book. 285 floating before his heated imagination? Sir, if it be his object to thrust me between the gentleman of Missouri and himself, in order to rescue the East from the contest it has provoked with the West, he shall not be gratified. Sir, I will not be dragged into the defence of my friend from Mis- souri. The gentleman from Missouri is able to fight his own battles. The South shall not be forced into a conflict not its own. The gallant West needs no aid from the South to repel any attack which may be made on them from any quarter. Let the gentleman from Massachusetts controvert the facts and arguments of the gentleman of Missouri if he can — and if he win the victory, let him wear its honours : I shall not deprive him of his laurels. CHARACTERS OF LORD CHATHAM AND MR. C. TOWNSHEND. Burke. ' I have done with the third period of your policy; the return to your ancient system, and your ancient tranquillity and concord. Sir, this period was not as long as it was happy. Another scene was opened, and other actors ap- peared on the stage. The state, in the condition I have described it, was delivered into the hands of Lord Chatham -—a great and celebrated name ; a name that keeps the name of this country respectable in every other on the globe. It may be be truly called, Clarum et venerabile nomen Gentibus et multura nostra quod proderat urbi. Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his merited rank, his superior eloquence, his splendid qualities, his eminent services, the vast space he fills in the eye of mankind ; and more than all the rest, his fall from power, which, like death, canonizes and sanctifies a great character, will not suffer me to censure any part of his conduct. I am afraid to flatter him; I am sure I am not disposed to blame him. Let those who have betrayed him by their adulation, insult him with their malevolence. But what I do not presume to censure, I may have leave to lament. For a wise man, he seemed to me at that time to be governed too much by general maxims. I speak with the freedom of history, and 286 I hope without offence. One or two of these maxims, flow- ing from an opinion not the most indulgent to our unhappy species, and surely a little too general, led him into measures that were greatly mischievous to himself : and for that reason, among others, perhaps fatal to his country ; mea- sures, the effects of which, I am afraid, are for ever incura- ble. He made an administration, so checkered and speck- led; he put together a piece of joinery, so crossly indented and whimsically dovetailed ; a cabinet so variously inlaid ; such a piece of diversified mosaic, such a tesselated pave- ment without cement, here a bit of black stone and there a bit of white ; patriots and courtiers, king's friends and republicans ; whigs and tories ; treacherous friends and open enemies ; that it was indeed a very curious show ; but utterly unsafe to touch, and unsure to stand on. In consequence of this arrangement, the confusion was such that his own principles could not possibly have any effect or influence in the conduct of affairs. If ever he fell into a fit of the gout, or if any other cause withdrew him from public cares, principles directly contrary were sure to predominate. When he had executed his plan, he had not an inch of ground to stand on ; when he had accomplished his scheme of administration, he was no longer a minister. When his face was hid for a moment, his whole system was on a wide sea, without chart or compass. The gentlemen, his particular friends, with a confidence in him which was justified even in its extravagance by his superior abilities, had never in any instance presumed upon any opinion of their own. Deprived of his guiding influence, they were whirled about, the sport of every gust, and easily driven into any port; and as those who joined with them in manning the vessel of the state were the most directly opposite to his opinions, measures and character, and far the most artful and most powerful of the set, they easily prevailed so as to seize upon the vacant derelict minds of his friends, and in- stantly they turned the vessel wholly out of the course of his policy. As it were to insult as well as to betray him, even long before the close of the first session of his adminis- tration, when every thing was publicly transacted and with great parade, in his name, they made an act declaring it highly just and expedient to raise a revenue in America. For even then, sir, even before this splendid orb was entirely ORATOR* S OWN BOOK. 28? set, and while the western horizon was in a blaze with his descending glory, on the opposite quarter of the heavens arose another luminary, and for his hour, became lord of the ascendant. This light too is passed and set for ever. You under- stand, to be sure, that I speak of Charles Townshend, officially the reproducer of this fatal scheme ; whom I can- not even now remember without some degree of sensibility. In truth, he was the delight and ornament of this house, and the charm of every private society which he honoured with his presence. Perhaps there never arose in this country, nor in any country, a man of a more pointed and finished wit ; and (where his passions were not concerned) of a more refined, exquisite and penetrating judgment. If he had not so great a stock as some have had who flourished formerly, of knowledge long treasured up, he knew better by far than any man I ever was acquainted with, how to bring together, within a short time, all that was necessary to establish, to illustrate, and to decorate that side of the question he sup- ported. He stated his matter skilfully and powerfully. He particularly excelled in a most luminous explanation and display of his subject. His style of argument was neither trite and vulgar, nor subtle and abstruse. He hit the house just between wind and water. And not being troubled with too anxious a zeal for any matter in question, he was never more tedious or more earnest than the preconceived opinions and present temper of his hearers required : to whom he was always in perfect unison. He conformed exactly to the temper of the house ; and he seemed to guide, because he was always sure to follow it. I beg pardon, sir, if, when I speak of this and of other great men, I appear to digress in saying something of their characters. In this eventful history of the revolutions of America, the characters of such men are of much importance. Great men are the guide-posts and landmarks in the state. The credit of such men at court, or in the nation, is the sole cause of all the public measures. It would be an invidious thing (most foreign, I trust to what you think my disposi- tion) to remark the errors into which the authority of great names has brought the nation without doing justice at the same time to the great qualities whence that authority arose. The subject is instructive to those who wish to form them- 288 orator's own book. selves on whatever of excellence has gone before them. There are many young members in the house, who never saw that prodigy, Charles Townshend ; nor of course know what ferment he was able to excite in every thing by the violent ebulition of his mixed virtues and failings. For fail- ings he had undoubtedly — many of us remember them — we are this day considering the effects of them. But he had no failings which were not owing to a noble cause ; to an ar- dent, generous, perhaps an immoderate passion for fame ; a passion whieh is the instinct of all great souls. He wor- shipped that goddess wheresoever she appeared ; but he paid his particular devotions to her in her favourite habitation, in her chosen temple, the house of commons. Besides the characters of the individuals who compose our body, it is impossible, Mr. Speaker, not to observe, that this house has a collective character of its own. That character, too, how- ever imperfect, is not unamiable. Like all great public col- lections of men, you possess a marked love of virtue, and an abhorrence of vice. But among vices, there is none which the house abhors in the same degree with obstinacy. Ob- stinacy, sir, is certainly a great vice ; and in the changeful state of political affairs, it is frequently the cause of great mischief. It happens, however, very unfortunately, that almost the whole line of the great and masculine virtues, constancy, gravity, magnanimity, fortitude, fidelity and firm- ness, are closely allied to this disagreeable quality, of which you have so just an abhorrence ; and in their excess, all these virtues very easily fall into it. He who paid such a particular attention to all your feelings, certainly took care not to shock them by that vice which is most disgustful to you. That fear of displeasing those who ought most to be pleas- ed, betrayed him sometimes into the other extreme. He had voted, and, in the year 1765, had been an advocate for the stamp-act. Things and the dispositions of men's minds were changed. In short the stamp-act began to be no fa- vourite with this house. Accordingly, he voted for the re- peal. The very next session, as the fashion of this world passeth away, the repeal began to be in as bad repute as the stamp-act had been the session before. To conform to the temper which began to prevail, and to prevail mostly amongst those most in power, he declared very early in the winter orator's own book. 289 that a revenue must be had out of America. Here this ex- traordinary man, then chancellor of the exchequer, found himself in great straits. To please universally was the ob- ject of his life ; but to tax and to please, no more than to love and to be wise, is not given to men. However, he attempted it. To render the tax palatable to the partisans of American revenue, he had made a preamble, stating the ne- cessity of such a revenue. To close with the American distinction, this revenue was external, or port-duty; but again to soften it to the other party, it was a duty of supply, &c. This fine spun scheme had the usual fate of all exqui- site policy. But the original plan, and the mode of execut- ing that plan, both arose singly and solely from a love of our applause. He was truly the child of the house. He never thought, did, or said any thing but with a view to you. He every day adapted himself to your disposition, and ad- justed himself before it, as at a looking-glass. He had observed that several persons, infinitely his inferiors in all respects, had formerly rendered themselves considerable in this house by one method alone. They were a race of men (I hope in God the species is extinct) who, when they rose in their place, no man living could divine from any known adhe- rence to parties, to opinions, or to principles ; from any order or system in their politics ; or from any sequel or connection in their ideas, what part they were going to take in any debate. It is astonishing, how much this uncertainty, especially at critical times, called the attention of all parties on such men. All eyes were fixed on them, all ears open to hear them; each party gaped and looked alternately for their vote, al- most to the end of their speeches. While the house hung in this uncertainty, now the hear-hims rose from this side — now they rebellowed from the other ; and that party to whom they fell at last from their tremulous and dancing balance, always received them in a tempest of applause. The fortune of such men was a temptation too great to be resisted by one, to whom a single whiff of incense withheld gave much greater pain, than he received delights in the clouds of it, which daily rose about him from the prodigal superstition of innumerable admirers. He was a candidate for contradictory honours ; and his great aim was to make those agree in the admiration of him, who never agreed in any thing else. 25 290 HECTOR IN BATTLE. — Shakspeare. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, Labouring for destiny, make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youths : and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising many forfeits and subduments, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' the air, Nor letting it decline on the declin'd ; That I have said to some my standers-by, " Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life !" And I have seen thee pause, and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in, Like an Olympian wrestling. PROLOGUE TO HENRY IV. Shakspeare. Enter Rumour, painted full of Tongues. Open your ears : for which of you will stop The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour speaks ? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the wind my posthorse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth : Upon my tongues continual slanders ride ; The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of peace, while covert enmity, Under the smile of safety, wounds the world : And who but Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, Whilst the big year, swol'n with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern tyrant War, And no such matter ? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures; And of so easy and so plain a stop, That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? orator's own book. 291 I run before king Harry's victory ; Who, in a bloody field by Shrewsbury, Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his troops, Quenching the flame of bold rebellion, Even with the rebel's blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first ? My office is To noise abroad, — that Harry Monmouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword ; And that the king before the Douglas' rage Stoop' d his anointed head as low as death. This have I rumour' d through the peasant towns Between that royal field of Shrewsbury And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where Hotspur's father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty sick : the post comes tiring on, And not a man of them brings other news Than they have learn'd of me ; from Rumour's tongues They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs. IMPORTANCE OF LITERATURE.— Lord Lyttleton. Cadmus and Hercules. Her. Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as Her- cules ? Did you kill the Nemean lion, the Erymanthian boar, the Lemean serpent, and Stymphalian birds ? Did you destroy tyrants and robbers ? You value yourself greatly on subduing one serpent : I did as much as that while I lay in my cradle. Cad. It is not on account of the serpent, that I boast my- self a greater benefactor to Greece than you. Actions should he valued by their utility, rather than their splendour. I taught Greece the art of writing, to which laws owe their precision and permanency. You subdued monsters ; I civil- ized men. It is from untamed passions, not from wild beasts, that the greatest evils arise to human society. By wisdom, by art, by the united strength of civil community, men have been enabled to subdue the whole race of lions, bears and serpents ; and, what is more, to bind by laws and wholesome regulations, the ferocious violence and dangerous treachery of the human disposition. Had lions been de- 292 orator's own book. stroyed only in single combat, men had had but a bad time of it ; and what but laws could awe the men who killed the lions ? The genuine glory, the proper distinction of the rational species, arise from the perfection of the mental powers. Courage is apt to be fierce, and strength is often exerted in acts of oppression ; but wisdom is the associate of justice. It assists her to form equal laws, to pursue right measures, to correct power, protect weakness, and to unite individuals in a common interest and general welfare. Heroes may kill tyrants ; but it is wisdom and laws that prevent tyranny and oppression. The operations of policy far surpass the labours of Hercules, preventing many evils which valour and might cannot even redress. You heroes regard nothing but glory ; and scarcely consider whether the conquests which raise your fame, are really beneficial to your country. Unhappy are the people who are governed by valour, not directed by prudence, and not mitigated by the gentle arts ! Her. I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenu- ous life, in the man who taught his countrymen to sit still and read ; and to lose the hours of youth and action in idle speculation and the sport of words. Cad. An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame, is the Eurystheus which imposes heroic labours on man- kind. The Muses incite to action, as well as entertain the hours of repose ; and I think you should honour them for presenting to heroes such a noble recreation, as may prevent their taking up the distiff, when they lay down the club. Her. Wits as well as heroes can take up the distaff. What think you of their thin-spun systems of philosophy, or lascivious poems, or Milesian fables ? Nay, what is still worse, are there not panegyrics on tyrants, and books that blaspheme the gods, and perplex the natural sense of right and wrong? I believe if Eurystheus were to set me to work again, he would find me a worse task than any he imposed ; he would make me read over a great library ; and I would serve it as I did the Hydra. I would burn as I went on, that one chimera might not rise from another, to plague mankind. I should have valued myself more on clearing the library than on cleansing the Augean stables. Cad. It is in those libraries only that the memory of your labours exists. The heroes of Marathon, the patriots of orator's own book. 293 Thermopylae owe their fame to me. All the wise institu- tions of lawgivers, and all the doctrines of sages, had perished in the ear, like a dream related, if letters had not preserved them. O Hercules ! it is not for the man who preferred virtue to pleasure, to be an enemy to the muses. Let Sardanapalus and the silken sons of luxury, who have wasted life in inglorious ease, despise the records of action, which bear no honourable testimony to their lives : But true merit, heroic virtue, should respect the sacred source of lasting honour. Her. Indeed, if writers employed themselves only in recording the acts of great men, much might be said in their favour. But why do they trouble people with their medita- tions ? Can it be of any consequence to the world what an idle man has been thinking ? Cad. Yes, it may. The most important and extensive advantages mankind enjoy, are greatly owing to men who have never quitted their closets. To them mankind are obliged for the facility and security of navigation. The in- vention of the compass has opened to them new worlds. The knowledge of the mechanical powers has enabled them to construct such wonderful machines, as perform what the united labour of millions, by the severest drudgery, could not accomplish. Agriculture too, the most useful of arts, has received its share of improvement from the same source. Poetry likewise is of excellent use, to enable the memory to retain with more ease, and to imprint with more energy upon the heart, precepts and examples of virtue. From the little root of a few letters, science has spread its branches over all nature, and raised its head to the heavens. Some philosophers have entered so far into the counsels of Divine Wisdom, as to explain much of the great operations of nature. The dimensions and distances of the planets, the causes of their revolutions, the path of comets, and the ebb- ing and flowing of the tides, are understood and explained. Can any thing raise the glory of the human species more than to see a little creature, inhabiting a small spot, amidst innumerable worlds, taking a survey of the universe, com- prehending its arrangement, and entering into the scheme of that wonderful connection and correspondence of things so remote, and which it seems ? great exertion of Omnipotence to have established ? What a volume of wisdom, what a 25* 294 noble theology do these discoveries open to us! While some superior geniuses have soared to these sublime sub- jects, other sagacious and diligent minds have been inquiring into the most minute works of the Infinite Artificer : the same care, the same providence is exerted through the whole, and we should learn from it, that, to true wisdom, utility and fitness appear perfection, and whatever is bene- ficial is noble. Her. I approve of science as far as it is assistant to action. I like the improvement of navigation, and the discovery of the greater part of the globe, because it opens a wider field for the master spirits of the world to bustle in. Cad. There spoke the soul of Hercules. But if learned men are to be esteemed for the assistance they give to active minds in their schemes, they are not less to be valued for their endeavours to give them a right direction, and mode- rate their too great ardour. The study of history will teach the legislator by what means states have become powerful ; and in the private citizen, they will inculcate the love of liberty and order. The writings of sages point out a pri- vate path of virtue ; and show that the best empire is self- government, and that subduing our passions is the noblest of conquests. Her. The true spirit of heroism acts by a generous im- pulse, and wants neither the experience of history, nor the doctrines of philosophers, to direct it. But do not arts and sciences render men effeminate, luxurious and inactive ? and can you deny that wit and learning are often made sub- servient to very bad purposes ? Cad. I will own that there are some natures so happily formed, they scarcely want the assistance of a master, and rules of art, to give them force or grace in every thing they do. But these favoured geniuses are few. As learning flourishes only where ease, plenty, and mild government subsist ; in so rich a soil, and under so soft a climate, the weeds of luxury will spring up among the flowers of art : but the spontaneous weeds would grow more rank, if they were allowed the undisturbed possession of the field. Let- ters keep a frugal temperate nation from growing ferocious, a rich one from becoming entirely sensual and debauched. Every gift of Heaven is sometimes abused ; but good sense and fine talents, by a natural law, gravitate towards virtue. orator's own book. 295 Accidents may drive them out of their proper direction ; but such accidents are an alarming omen, and of dire portent to the times. For if virtue cannot keep to her allegiance those men, who in their hearts confess her divine right, and know the value of her laws, on whose fidelity and obedience can she depend ? May such geniuses never descend to flatter vice, encourage folly, or propagate irreligion ; but exert all their powers in the service of virtue, and celebrate the noble choice of those, who, like Hercules, preferred her to plea- sure ! ON THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. Johnson. Maselas, Princess, Imlac and Astronomer. " What reason !" said the prince, "can be given, why the Egyptians should thus expensively preserve those car- casses which some nations consume with fire, others lay to mingle with the earth, and all agree to remove from their sight, as soon as decent rites can be performed?" " The original of ancient customs," said Imlac, " is com- monly unknown ; for the practice often continues when the cause has ceased ; and concerning superstitious ceremonies, it is in vain to conjecture ; for what reason did not dictate, reason cannot explain. I have long believed, that the prac- tice of embalming arose only from tenderness to the remains of relations or friends, and to this opinion I am the more inclined, because it seems impossible that this case should have been general : had all the dead been embalmed, their repositories must in time have been more spacious than the dwellings of the living. I suppose only the rich or honour- able were secured from corruption, and the rest left to the course of nature. " But it is commonly supposed, that the Egyptians be- lieved the soul to live as long as the body continued undis- solved, and therefore tried this method of eluding death." " Could the wise Egyptians," said Nekayah, think so grossly of the soul ? If the soul could once survive its separation, what could it afterwards receive or suffer from the body?" " The Egyptians would doubtless think erroneously," 296 said the astronomer, " in the darkness of heathenism, and the first dawn of philosophy. The nature of the soul is still disputed, amidst all our opportunities of clearer know- ledge : some yet say that it may be material, who, neverthe- less, believe it to be immortal." "Some," answered Imlac, "have indeed said, that the soul is material ; but I can scarcely believe, that any man has thought it who knew how to think ; for all the conclu- sions of reason enforce the immateriality of mind, and all the notices of sense and investigation of science concur to prove the unconsciousness of matter. "It was never supposed that cogitation is inherent in mat- ter, or that every particle is a thinking being. Yet, if any part of matter be devoid of thought, what part can we suppose to think ? Matter can differ from matter only in form, density bulk, motion, and direction of motion : to which of these, however varied or combined, can consciousness be annexed? To be round or square, to be solid or fluid, to be great or little, to be moved slowly or swiftly one way or another, are modes of material existence, all equally alien from the nature of cogitation. If matter be once without thought, it can only be made to think by some new modification, but all the modifications which it can admit are equally uncon- nected with cogitative powers." "But the materialists," said the astronomer, "urges, that matter may have qualities with which we are unacquainted." " He who will determine," returned Imlac, "against that which he knows, because there may be something which he knows not; he that can set hypothetical possibility against acknowledged certainty, is not to be admitted among reasonable beings. All that we know of matter is, that mat- ter is inert, senseless, and lifeless ; and if this conviction cannot be opposed but by referring us to something that we know not, we have all the evidence that human intellect can admit. If that which is known may be overruled by that which is unknown, no being not omniscient, can arrive at cer- tainty." " Yet let us not," said the astronomer, "too arrogantly limit the Creator's power." "It is no limitation of omnipotence," replied the poet, "to suppose, that one thing is not consistent with another, that the same proposition cannot be at once true and false, 297 that the same number cannot be even and odd, that cogita- tion cannot be conferred on that which is created incapable of cogitation." " I know not," said Nekayah, " any great use of this question. Does that immateriality, which in my opinion you have sufficiently proved, necessarily include eternal duration ?" " Of immateriality," said Imlac, "our ideas are negative, and therefore obscure. Immateriality seems to imply a na- tural power of perpetual duration as a consequence of ex- emption from all causes of decay : whatever perishes is destroyed by the solution of its contexture, and separation of its parts ; nor can we conceive how that which has no parts, and therefore admits no solution, can be naturally cor- rupted or impaired." " I know not," said Rasselas, "how to conceive any thing without extension ; what is extended must have parts, and you allow, that whatever has parts may be destroyed." "Consider your own conceptions," replied Imlac, " and the difficulty will be less. You will find substance without extension. An ideal form is no less real than material bulk: yet an ideal form has no extension. It is no less certain, when you think on a pyramid, that your mind possesses the idea of a pyramid, than that the pyramid itself is standing. What space does the idea of a pyramid occupy more than the idea of a grain of corn ? or how can either suffer lacera- tion ? As is the effect such is the cause : as thought such is the power that thinks ; a power impassive and indiscerp- tible." " But the Being," said Nekayah, " whom I fear to name ; the being which made the soul, can destroy it." " He surely can destroy it," answered Imlac, " since, however unperishable, it receives from a superior nature its power of duration. That it will not perish by any inherent cause of decay, or principle of corruption, may be shown by philosophy ; but philosophy can tell no more. That it will not be annihilated by him that made it, we must hum- bly learn from higher authority." The whole assembly stood awhile silent and collected. "Let us return," said Rasselas, "from this scene of mor- tality. How gloomy would be these mansions of the dead to him who did not know that he should never die, that 298 orator's own book. what now acts shall continue its agency, and what now thinks shall think on forever ! Those that lie here stretched before us, the wise and the powerful of ancient times, warn us to remember the shortness of our present state : they were, perhaps, snatched away while they were busy, like us, in the choice of life." " To me,' said the princess, " the choice of life is become less important ; I hope hereafter to think only on the choice of eternity." THE FEARLESSNESS OF CONSCIOUS INNOCENCE. Extract from the Speech of Robert Emmet, before sentence of death was pronounced upon him. My Lord, — You ask me what I have to say, why sen- tence of death should not be pronounced on me according to law ? I have nothiug to say, that can alter your predeter- mination, or that will become me to say with any view to the mitigation of that sentence, which you are here to pro- , nounce, and I must abide by. But I have that to say which interests me more than life, and which you have laboured to destroy. I have much to say why my reputation should be rescued from the load of false accusation, and calumny which has been heaped upon it. I am charged with being an emissary of France. An emissary of France ! and for what end ? It is alleged, that I wished to sell the independence of my country ! And for what end? Was this the object of my ambition? And is this the mode by which a tribunal of justice reconciles con- tradictions ? No ; I am no emissary — my ambition was to hold a place among the deliverers of my country — not in power, not in profit, but in the glory of the achievement ! Sell my country's independence to France ! and for what ? A change of masters ? No ; but for ambition ! Oh, my country ! was it personal ambition that influenced me — had it been the soul of my actions, could I not, by my education and fortune, by the rank and consideration of my family, have placed myself amongst the proudest of your oppressors ? My country was my idol — to it I sacrificed every selfish, every endearing sentiment, and for it I now offer up my life. No, my lord, I acted as an Irishman, determined on orator's own book. 299 delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and un- relenting tyranny, and from the more galling yoke of a do- mestic faction. Connection with France was indeed intended— but only so far as mutual interest would sanction or require ; were they to assume any authority inconsistent with the purest independence, it would be the signal of their destruction. Were the French to come as invaders, or enemies uninvited by the wishes of the people, I should oppose them to the utmost of my strength. Yes, my countrymen, I should advise you to meet them on the beach, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. I would meet them with all the destructive fury of war, and 1 would animate my coun- trymen to immolate them in their boats, before they had con- taminated the soil of my country. If they succeeded in landing, and if forced to retire before superior discipline, I would dispute every inch of ground, raze every house, burn every blade of grass — the last spot in which the hope of freedom should desert me, there would I hold, and the last intrenchment of liberty should be my grave. I have been charged with that importance, in the efforts to emancipate my country, as to be considered the key-stone of the combination of Irishmen, or, as your lordship express- ed it, " the life and blood of the conspiracy." You do me honour overmuch — you have given to the sabaltern all the credit of a superior; there are men engaged in this conspi- racy, who are not only superior to me, but even to your own conceptions of yourself, my lord — men, before the splendour of whose genius and virtues I should bow with re- spectful deference, and who would think themselves dishon- oured to be called your friends — who would not disgrace themselves by shaking your blood-stained hand. — \_Here he was inter rapt ed.~\ What, my lord, shall you tell me, on the passage to that scaffold, which that tyranny, of which you are only the in- termediary executioner, has erected for my murder, that I am accountable for all the blood that has and will be shed in this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor — shall you tell me this, and must I be so very a slave as not to repel it. I, who fear not to approach the Omnipotent Judge, to answer for the conduct of my whole life — am I to be ap- palled and falsified by a mere remnant of mortality here — 300 orator's own book. by you, too, who, if it were possible to collect all the inno- cent blood that you have shed, in your unhallowed ministry, in one great reservoir, your lordship might swim in it ? My lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice — the blood for which you thirst is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim : it circulates warmly and un- ruffled through the channels which God created for noble purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so grievous, that they cry to Heaven. Be yet patient ! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave : my lamp of life is nearly extinguished : my race is run : the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world ; it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph ; for as no man who knows my motives, dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance as- perse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. — I have done ! 9%V s ji THE END. IRArr'n.R ' V .V C^ -> if ^ " ^ V «£>. V«V ^ OC \* > cK * C b. % V * o5 ^% ^ '*v - "% * ^ * ^ ■^ V'J-/~ x °' «<> # ;V ^ OC ^ ^ v- 1 -*^ o^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 021 100 593 2 ■