READINGS AND RECITATIONS.

611. THE MURDERER: KNAPP'S TRIAL. Though I could well have wished to shun this occasion, I have not felt at liberty, to withhold my professional assistance, when it is supposed, that I might be, in some degree, useful-in investigating, and discovering the truth, respecting this most extraordinary murder. It has seemed to be a duty, incumbent on me, as on every other citizen, to do my best, and my utmost, to bring to light the perpetrators of this crime.

Against the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery, and the punishment, of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those, who feel, and manifest, an anxious concern, that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime, at the bar of public justice.

Gentlemen, it is a most extraordinary case. In some respects, it has hardly a precedent anywhere; certainly none in our New England history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any lion-like temptation, springing upon their virtue, and overcoming it, before resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or satiate long-settled, and deadly hate.

It was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. It was all "hire and salary, not revenge." It was the weighing of money against life: the counting out of so many pieces of silver, against so many ounces of blood. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets.

Whosoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of Murder, if he will show it as it has been exhibited in one example, where such example was last to have been looked for, in the very bosom of our New England society, let him not give the grim visage of Moloch, the brow, knitted by revenge, the face, black with settled hate, and the blood-shot eye, emitting livid fires of malice.

Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smoothfaced, bloodless demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature, in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal nature, a fiend, in the ordinary display, and development of his character."

The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof,-a healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet;-the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace.

The assassin enters, through the window already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on

its hinges without noise; and he enters, and
The room was uncommonly open to the
beholds his victim before him.
admission of light. The face of the innocent
sleeper was turned from the murderer, and
the beams of the moon, resting on the gray
locks of his aged temple, showed him where
to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the
victim passes, without a struggle, or a motion,
It is the assassin's purpose to make sure
from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!
work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it
was obvious that life had been destroyed by
the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the
aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at
the heart, and replaces it again over the
wounds of the poinard! To finish the pic-
ture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He
feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no
longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done!
He retreats, retraces his steps to the window,
passes out through it, as he came in, and es-
seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret
capes. He has done the murder,-no eye has
is his own, and it is safe!

Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake.
Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole
creation of God has neither nook, nor corner,
where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is
safe. Not to speak of that eye, which glances
through all disguises, and beholds everything,
as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt
True it is, generally speaking, that "mur-
are never safe from detection even by men.
der will out." True it is, that Providence hath
so ordained, and doth so govern things, that
those, who break the great law of Heaven,
by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in
avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case
exciting so much attention as this, discovery
must come, and will come, sooner or later. A
thousand eyes turn at once to explore every
nected with the time and place; a thousand
man, everything, every circumstance, con-
ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited
minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding
all their light, and ready to kindle the slight-
Meantime, the guilty soul cannot keep its
est circumstance into a blaze of discovery.
own secret. It is false to itself; or rather, it
feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to
possession, and knows not what to do with it.
be true to itself. It labors under its guilty
The human heart was not made for the resi-
denee of such an inhabitant. It finds itself
preyed on by a torment, which it dares not
acknowledge to God or man.

A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no or earth. The secret, which the murderer assistance, or sympathy, either from heaven, possesses, soon comes to possess him; and, like the evil spirits, of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reade it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master.

It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles, with still greater violence, to burst forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed, there is no refuge from confession, but suicide, an 1 suicide is confession.

READINGS AND

614. THE LIFE OF A DRUNKARD. If you
would mark the misery, which drunkenness
infuses into the cup of domestic happiness,
go with me to one of those nurseries of crime,
a common tippling shop, and there behold,
collected till midnight, the fathers, the hus-
bands, the sons, and the brothers of a neigh-
borhood. Bear witness to the stench, and the
filthiness around them. Hearken to the oaths,
the obscenity, and the ferocity of their conver-
sation. Observe their idiot laugh; record the
vulgar jest, with which they are delighted,
and tell me, what potent sorcery has so trans-
formed these men, that, for this loathsome
den, they should forego all the delights of an
innocent, and lovely fireside.

But let us follow some of them home, from
the scene of their debauch. There is a young
man, whose accent, and gait, and dress, be-
speak the communion, which he once has
held, with something better than all this. He
is an only son. On him, the hopes of parents,
and of sisters have centred. Every nerve of
that family has been strained, to give to that
intellect, of which they all were proud, every
means of choicest cultivation. They have
denied themselves, that nothing should be
wanting, to enable him to enter his profession,
under every advantage. They gloried in his
talents, they exulted in the first buddings of
his youthful promise, and they were looking
forward to the time when every labor should
be repaid, and every self-denial rewarded, by
the joys of that hour, when he should stand
forth in all the blaze of well-earned, and in-
disputable professional pre-eminence. Alas,
these visions are less bright than once they
were!

Enter that family circle. Behold those aged
parents, surrounded by children, lovely and
beloved. Within that circle reign peace, vir-
tue, intelligence, and refinement. The even-
ing has been spent, in animated discussion,
in innocent pleasantry, in the sweet inter-
change of affectionate endearment. There is
one, who used to share all this, who was the
centre of this circle. Why is he not here? Do
professional engagements, of late, so estrange
him from home? The hour of devotion has
arrived. They kneel before their Father and
their God. A voice, that used to mingle in
their praises, is absent. An hour rolls away.
Where now has all that cheerfulness fled?
Why does every effort to rally, sink them
deeper in despondency? Why do those pa-
rents look so wistfully around, and why do
they start at the sound of every footstep?
Another hour has gone. That lengthened
peal is too much for a mother's endurance.

She can conceal the well known cause no
longer. The unanswered question is wrung
from her lips, Where, oh where, is my son?
The step of that son and brother is heard.
The door is opened. He staggers in before
them, and is stretched out at their feet, in all
the loathsomeness of beastly intoxication.

615. SERPENT OF THE STILL.
They tell me-of the Egyptian asp,
The bite of which-is death;
The victim, yielding with a gasp,
His hot, and hurried breath.'
The Egyptian queen, says history,
The reptile vile applied;
And in the arms of agony,
Victoriously died.

Y

RECITATIONS.

They tell me, that, in Italy,
There is a reptile dread.
The sting of which-is agony,

And dooms the victim dead.
But, it is said, that music's sound,
May soothe the poisoned part,
Yea, heal the galling, ghastly woun
And save the sinking heart.
They tell me, too, of serpents vast,
That crawl on Afric's shore,
And swallow men-historians past
Tell us of one of yore:-
But there is yet, one, of a kind,

More fatal-than the whole,
That stings the body, and the mind,
Yea, it devours the soul.

"Tis found almost o'er all the earth,

Save Turkey's wide domains;
And there, if e'er it had a birth,

"Tis kept in mercy's chains.
Tis found in our own gardens gay,
In our own flowery fields;
Devouring, every passing day,
Its thousands-at its meals.
The poisonous venom withers youth,
Blasts character, and health;
All sink before it-hope, and truth,
And comfort, joy, and wealth.
It is the author, too, of shame;
And never fails to kill.
Reader, dost thou desire the name?
The SERPENT OF THE STILL.

THE WORLD AT A DISTANCE.

'Tis pleasant-through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends, through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound,
Falls a soft murmur-on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying, thus at ease,
The globe, and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure, and more than mortal height,
That liberates, and exempts me, from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war-
Has lost its terrors, ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice, that make man-a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo-of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble, at the sound.

He travels, and expatiates; as the bee,
From flower to flower, so he-from and to lac!
The manners, customs, policy of all,
He sucks intelligence-in every clime,
Pay contribution-to the store he gleans;
And spreads the honey-of his deep research,
At his return-a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering cyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great cireuit, and le still at home.

Hed battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock

In their day, and generation, they served, and honored the country, and the whole country, and their renown is of the treasures of the whole

616. EULOGIUM ON THE SOUTH. If there be | the pride of her great names. I claim them for one state in the union, Mr. President, (and I say countrymen, one and all-the Laurens, the Rutit not in a boastful spirit) that may challenge ledges, the Pinckneys, the Sumpters, the Maricomparison with any other, for a uniform, zeal-ons-Americans all-whose fame is no more to ous, ardent, and uncalculating devotion to the be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents union, that state-is South Carolina. Sir, from and patriotism, were capable of being circumthe very commencement of the revolution, up to scribed, within the same narrow limits. this hour, there is no sacrifice, however great, she has not cheerfully made; no service, she has ever hesitated to perform. She has adhered to you in your prosperity; but, in your adversi-country. Him, whose honored name the gentlety, she has clung to you, with more than filial affection. No matter what was the condition of her domestic affairs, though deprived of her resources, divided by parties, or surrounded by difficulties, the call of the country, has been to her, as the voice of God. Domestic discord ceased at the sound, every man became at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sens of Caro-creased gratification, and delight, rather. Sir, I lina were all seen, crowding together to the temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their common country.

man himself bears-does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it in his power, to exhibit a Carolina name so bright, as to produce envy in my bosom? No, sir, in

thank God, that, if I am gifted with little of the
spirit, which is said to be able to raise mortals to
the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that
other spirit, which would drag angels down.
But sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections

What, sir, was the conduct of the south during the revolution? Sir, I honor New England for her conduct in that glorious struggle. But, great-let me indulge in refreshing remembrances of as is the praise, which belongs to her, I think at least, equal honor is due to the south. They espoused the quarrel of their brethren, with a generous zeal which did not suffer them to stop to calculate their interest in the dispute. Favorites of the mother country, possessed of neither ships, nor seamen, to create commercial rivalship, they might have found, in their situation, a guarantee, that their trade would be forever fostered, and protected by Great Britain. But, trampling on all considerations, either of interest, or safety, they rushed into the conflict, and, fighting for principle, perilled all in the sacred cause of freedom.

Never-were there exhibited, in the history of the world, higher examples of noble daring, dreadful suffering, and heroic endurance, than by the whigs of Carolina, during the revolution. The whole state, from the mountains to the sea, was overrun by an overwhelming force of the enemy. The fruits of industry-perished on the spot where they were produced, or were consumed by the foe. "The plains of Carolina" drank up the most precious blood of her citizens! Black, and smoking ruins-marked the places which had been the habitations of her children! Driven from their homes, into the gloomy, and almost impenetrable swamps, even there-the spirit of liberty survived; and South Carolina, sustained by the example of her Sumpters, and Marions, proved, by her conduct, that though her soil might be overrun, the spirit of her people was invincib e.-Hayne.

the past-let me remind you, that in early times, no states cherished greater harmony, both of principle, and of feeling, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to God, that harmony might again return. Shoulder to shoulder they went through the revolution-hand in hand, they stood round the administration of Washington, and felt his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and distrust, are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm neve scattered.

Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts-she needs none. There she is-behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain, forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will lie-forever.

And, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord, and disunion shall wound it-if party strife, and blind ambition shall hawk at, and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed to separate it from that union by which alone, its existence is made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked; it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gather around it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest

617. EULOGIUM ON THE NORTH. The eulogium pronounced on the character of the state of South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary, and other merits, meets mylearty concurrence. I shall not acknowl-monuments of its own glory, and on the very edge, that the honorable member is before me, in regard for whatever of distinguished talent, or distinguished character, South Carolina has proAuced. I claim part of the honor: I partake in

spot of its origin.—Webster.

The sweetest cordial-we receive at last,
Is conscience-of our virtuous actions past.
Inform yourself, and instruct others.