!

Titus! in the name of that Being, to whom the wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often wrought her misery often has she been trampled by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the City of the Omnipotent; and never was blow inflicted on her by man, that was not terribly repaid.

The Assyrian came, the mightiest power of the world: he plundered her temple, and led her people into captivity. How long was it before his empire was a dream, his dynasty extinguished in blood, and an enemy on his throne ?-The Persian came from her protector, he turned into her oppressor; and his empire was swept away like the dust of the desert! - The Syrian smote her: the smiter died in agonies of remorse; and where is his kingdom now?—The Egyptian smote her: and who now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies?

Pompey came the invincible, the conqueror of a thousand cities, the light of Rome; the lord of Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he profaned her temple; and from that hour he went down down, like a millstone plunged into the ocean! Blind counsel. rash ambition, womanish fears, were upon the great statesman and warrior of Rome. Where does he sleep? What sands were colored with his blood? The universal conqueror died a slave, by the hand of a slave ! Crassus came at the head of the legions: he plundered the sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance followed him, and he was cursed by the curse of God. Where are the bones of the robber and his host? Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf of Parthia, their fitting tomb!

You, too, son of Vespasian, may be commissioned for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious people. You may scourge our naked vice by force of arms; and then you may return to your own land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate of the instrument of evil? Shall you see a peaceful old age? Shall A son of yours ever sit upon the throne? Shall not rather some monster of your blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make Rome, in bitterness of scul, curse the Flavian name?

CBOLY.

PHILLIPS ON THE WRONGS OF IRELAND.

You traverse the ocean to emancipate the African; you cross the line to convert the Hindoo; you hurl your thunder against the savage Algerine; but your own brethren at home, who speak the same tongue, acknowledge the same king, and kneel to the same God, cannot get one visit from your itinerant humanity! Oh, such a system is almost too abominable for a name; it is a monster of impiety, impolicy, ingratitude, and injustice! The pagan nations of antiquity scarcely acted on such barbarous principles. Look to ancient Rome, with her sword in one hand, and her constitution in the other, healing the injuries of conquest with the embrace of brotherhood, and wisely converting the captive into the citizen. Look to her great enemy, the glorious Carthagenian, at the foot of the Alps, ranging his prisoners round him, and by the politic option of captivity or arms, recruiting his legions with the very men whom he had literally conquered into gratitude? They laid their foundations deep in the human heart, and their succcess was porportionate to their policy. You complain of the violence of the Irish Catholic can you wonder he is violent? It is the consequence of your own infliction —

"The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear,

The blood will follow where the knife is driven."

Your friendship has been to him worse than hostility; he feels its embrace but by the pressure of his fetters! I am only amazed he is not more violent. He fills your exchequer, he fights your battles, he feeds your clergy from whom he derives no benefit, he shares your burdens, he shares your perils, he shares everything except your privileges- can you wonder he is violent? No matter what his merit, no matter what his claims, no matter what his services: he sees himself a nominal subject, and a real slave; and his children, the heirs, perhaps of his toils, perhaps of his talents, certainly of his disqualifications-can you wonder he is violent? He sees every pretended obstacle to his emancipation vanished; Catholic Europe your ally, the Bourbon on the throne, the emperor a captive, the pope a friend ; the aspersions on his faith disproved by his allegiance to you against, alternately, every Catholic potentate in Christendom, and he feels himself branded with hereditary degradation ― cun you wonder, then, that he is violent? He petitioned humbly; his tameness was construed into a proof of apathy. He petitioned boldly; his remonstrance was considered as an impudent audacity. He petitioned in peace; he was told it was not the time

I

He petitioned in war; he was told it was not the time. E strange interval, a prodigy in politics, a pause between peace and war, which appeared to be just made for him, arose; allude to the period between the retreat of Louis and the restoration of Bonaparte: he petitioned then, and was told it was not the time. Oh, shame! shame! shame! I hope he will petition no more to a parliament so equivocating. However, I am not sorry they did so equivocate, because I think they have suggested one common remedy for the grievances of both countries, and that remedy is, a REFORM OF THAT PARLIAMENT.

THE PRICE OF ELOQUENCE.

MORE than twenty centuries ago, the orphan son of an Athenian sword-cutler, neglected by his guardians, and regarded as a youth of feeble promise, became, at the age of sixteen, enamored of eloquence. He resolved, with a strength of will and an ardor of enthusiasm to which nothing is insuperable, to be himself eloquent. This youth becomes successively the docile pupil of Callistratus, Isæus, Isocrates, and Plato. But his studies, though embracing a liberal and wide range of letters, philosophy and science, are not confined to the academy or the public grove. We see him daily ascending the Acropolis, and panting for breath as he gains the summit. Again he is seen laboriously climbing Olympus, the Hymettus, and every eminence where genius or the muses have breathed their inspiration.

His object, which he pursues with an ardor that never flags, and a diligence that never tires, is twofold, viz: to drink in the free and fresh inspirations of nature and art, and, by unremitting daily exercise, to give expansion to his chest, and strength and freedom of play to his lungs.

We see him again, when the tempest comes on, hurrying to the least frequented parts of the Piræus or Phalerus, and while the deafening thunders roar around him, and the deep and stirring eloquence of many waters expands and fills his soul, lifting his feeble and stammering voice, and essaying to give it compass, and flexibility, and power, while he "talks with the thunder as friend to friend, and weaves his garland of the lightning's wing."

We see this ardent Athenian youth again, amidst the profoundest solitudes of nature, holding communion with high and ennobling thoughts stirred within his bosom by the spirit of the great and godlike, the sublime and beautiful, from every object of nature and of plastic art around him.

At length, day after day and night after night, for months, he is seen entering a solitary cave. How is he busied in that subterranean chamber? With his head half shaven, that he may not be tempted to appear too early in society or in public, we find him poring over the tomes of rhetoricians, historians, philosophers and poets; with his pen, also, eight times transcribing Thucydides, that he may make his own, some portion of the terseness, energy and fire of that historian.

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After all this educational training of the greatest and best masters, living and dead after all this self-imposed discipline of intellect and spirit, and when he has reached the age of ripe manhood, we go to witness his first effort in forensic eloquence.

The hisses of his fastidious auditory stifle and repress for a time the kindling energy and fervor of his soul, and his still embarrassed and stammering enunciation seems to jeopardize the cause he is pleading. At length he rises in a conscious mastery of his subject and of himself, and with the self-sustained dignity of the true orator, conciliates, convinces, moves, persuades, by the clearness, fitness and force of his arguments, and the thrilling pathos and pungency of his appeals.

This is eloquence- the eloquence of the Athenian Demosthenes the triumph of educational skill and self-discipline, united, indeed, with great powers, and with a lofty and indomitable force of will.

The meed which the concurrent suffrages of more than two thousand years, in every civilized nation of the globe, have awarded to this great orator, we readily concede to him. But in our admiration of the power of his eloquence, we are too willing to forget the laborious and pains-taking efforts of study and discipline by which he attained his unrivaled eminence in oratorical power.

CHAUNCEY COLTON, D. d.

A POLITICAL PAUSE.

"Bur we must pause!" says the honorable gentleman. What! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out- her best blood be spilt her treasures wasted that you may make an experiment? Put yourselves, O! that you would put yourselves on the field of battle, and learn to judge of the sort of horrors that you excite. In former wars a man might, at least, have some feeling, some interest, that served to balance in his mind the impressions which a scene of carnage and of death must inflict.

But if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and ere to inquire for what they were fighting, "Fighting!" would be the answer; "they are not fighting; they are pausing." "Why is that man expiring? Why is that other writhing with agony? What means this implacable fury?" The answer must be, You are quite wrong, sir, you deceive yourself they are not fighting-do not disturb them-they are merely pausing! This man is not expiring with agony → that man is not dead—he is only pausing! Lord help you, sir! they are not angry with one another: they have now no cause of quarrel; but their country thinks that there should be a pause. All that you see, sir, is nothing like fighting there is no harm, nor cruelty, nor bloodshed in it, whatever; it is nothing more than a political pause! It is merely to try an experiment — to see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself better than heretofore; and in the meantime we have agreed to a pause, in pure friendship!"

And is this the way, sir, that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order? You take up a system calculated to uncivilize the world—to destroy order- to trample on religion-to stifle in the heart, not merely the generosity of noble sentiment, but the affections of social nature; and in the prosecution of this system, you spread terror and devastation all around you.

FOX

PREVALENCE OF WAR.

That

WAR is the law of violence. Peace the law of love. law of violence prevailed without mitigation from the murder of Abel to the advent of the Prince of Peace.

We might have imagined, if history had not attested the reverse, that an experiment of four thousand years would have sufficed to prove, that the rational and valuable ends of society can never be attained, by constructing its institutions in conformity with the standard of war. But the sword and the torch had been eloquent in vain. A thousand battle-fields, white with the bones of brothers, were counted as idle advocates in the cause of justice and humanity. Ten thousand cities, abandoned to the cruelty and licentiousness of the soldiery, and burnt, or dismantled, or razed to the ground, pleaded in vain against the law of violence. The river, the lake, the sea, crimsoned with the blood of fellow-citizens, and neighbors, and strangers, had lifted up their voices in vain to denounce the folly and wickedness of war.