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On this main point, let Dr. Carroll speak:"It would be doing injustice to this subject not to notice briefly in conclusion, the duty of educated men to bring the influence of the Bible to bear on the formation of cur literature. An attempt has been made in our own country, on a small scale, to break the alliance between religion and learning, and to divorce the Bible from our academic institutions. It is difficult to decide whether such an attempt offends most against sound philosophy, good taste or correct morals. Coleridge, a profound mental philosopher and a good poet, has somewhere said that 'an

ment of American originality. We have come upon the stage of this world too, as a nation, under the dynasty of science. Astrology was the delusion of other days and of distant lands. Our youth are learning the matter-of-fact science of astronomy. Alchemy was the hallucination of the eastern cloister, in a barbarous age, We have the universe of matter before us, under the slow and small beginnings of chemical experiment. Ne-intense study of the Bible will prevent any writer from being cromancy, soothsaying, witchcraft and fable at large, all vulgar in point of style. He perhaps never uttered a sentence, that gave him a better claim to philosophical discrimination than in their turn marred the incipiency of the literature of this. To illustrate the beauty and sublimity of the holy scrip other days and other nations, but they were all exploded a national literature, would demand limits far more extensive tures, and to show their salutary influence on the formation of before our oldest college edifices were built, or charters than the present address will allow. Besides giving us an enacted, and our literature dates since their death. which has so deeply influenced the phenomena of our present authentic account of that tremendous moral overthrow in Eden, Light and immortality, come to light by the gospel, condition, the Bible presents the most touching and tender scenes of the display of the domestic affections--the unsophisticated shone upon the wilderness when our forefathers land- friendships of the earliest and simplest stages of human societyed. Here then is the pedestal of American society, those agitating extremes of elevation and depression of fortune, in the history of real life, which far exceed in high-wrought government, genius, literature, character, and fame. and tragic interest, the plot and the catastrophe of the drama or The obstructions in the way of all, are manifest enough. the romance; it presents an analysis of moral character the most critically exact, and furnishes the most perfect models of We have too much public domain still unappropriated.true greatness; it contains poems pervaded with an imagery The waves of emigration roll too conspicuously toward that familiarizes the mind to those general forms of beautiful nature which are unfading and immortal; and it discloses the the wilderness. Wealth is too near under the gaze of stupendous realities of a future world, amidst a sunlight and a every body, as a bait to exertion. We have too many mediate residence of the Deity. Now these are objects of inspi scenery sufficiently resplendent and sublime to be the more imlong rivers to navigate. We have rather too sparse aration and of classic allusion, that infinitely transcend the entire population every where as yet, and too little division of labor in all departments; too much bustle, and too lit-fishermen derived their imperishable code of morality, far ex tle leisure-and, more than all, as a people we are not much more Americans as yet, than we are an assemblage of emigrants and their children from other nations, in America. If some power of heaven, or earth, or both, had come and civilized the red men of the forest, gathered them into friendly society, organized them into states, gave them religion, and warmed their minds and bosoms into that fruitfulness of thought and feeling and invention, out of which a literature springs-if institutions had sprung up thence from the seeds of truth, and under the bounties of heaven-that would have been all and purely American. As it is, it will no doubt be long time before any thing that is American will be entirely original.

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But let the question of originality take care of itself we need not vex ourselves about it. The point really important is the intellectual and moral advancement of our population. This is a field as open before us, as the skies above, or the wilderness westward. And he is a benefactor of our race, and the nation's friend, who does any thing towards this object, whether it be in thought, word or deed.

history. The source from which the Nazarene and the Jewish machinery of pagan mythology, and all the incidents of profane

investigation, than that from which Plato and Socrates collected ceeds in riches and depth, and will more amply repay modern their splendid fragments. And who can doubt but that the fountain from which David and Isaiah drank, contains waters more calm, and clear, and deep, imaging the azure above, and reflecting the pearls beneath, on which they sleep, more brightly Does not Mount Zion above,' whose summit is gilded with than the Pierian spring or the Castalian fount of classic memory? the beams of an unsetting sun, and whose foot is laved by the pure river of the water of life, clear as crystal,' with 'the trees of life, on either bank,' in their perennial green, and their golden fruit, afford richer and more ample materials for the muse, than can be furnished by the fabled Parnassus, peopled with every form of beauty with which the unassisted imagination can invest it?

Whoever will examine the adaptation of the objects disclosed in revelation to the original susceptibilities of our mental consti the Bible is destined to have over the intellectual character of tution, can see, without prophetic prescience, the sway which our race. True, as yet there is scarcely an approximation to a Christian literature in the most refined nations of the earth.

But it will not always be so. The triumphs which the Bible will yet gain over the human intellect, and its power to lead captive are as certain as those splendid conquests which it has begun to at its chariot wheels the genius and the learning of the world, make, and is pledged to complete over the moral nature of man literature of nations, or how much has been lost by the absence Who can compute the influence which it may yet exert on the of that influence on the ages that have passed away? How dif ferent would have been the literature of the Augustan period, had it been pervaded by the spirit of the Bible! The monuments of pagan genius and taste of that era, have indeed won the admiration of the world; but it is that kind of admiration which we feel in contemplating the proportions and symmetry and But, in conclusion of these hasty observations, we must beauty of the statue, with the concurrent conviction that sull it is cold and lifeless. The body of the intellectual products of that be contented to select one consideration from the many age, has the stature and the proportions of manhood, but it that rise to view, and that one, of course, ought to be the wanted inspiration to breathe into its nostrils the breath of life, that it might become a living soul. This the Bible is most important one of all. It is this-religion is in-destined to do for the literature of future times. Whether our dispensable to a dignified, uniform and permanent lite-educated men will avail themselves of its influence in the form a tion of ours, or not, divine revelation will yet transfuse its light erature. On this point let every national literature and purity and vivifying spirit through the literature of all ca that the annals of time bear, be produced as witness-empire of mind. Genius shall yet pay its homage and reverently tions. The sacred volume will not always be excluded from the God and nature can not be obscured nor divorced from worship at the shrine of the holy oracles. And when this world each other. Of this the bosom of every man, not yet a shall have completed that grand moral cycle, in the calculations of prophecy, which is to bring it nearer to the central light of demon, is conscious. Give the people religion, and heaven, all nations will have a literature, pure and chaste and give it to them early, and give it to them always. It sparkling with the dews and the sunbeanis of the millennial will make them orderly, moral, thoughtful, intelligent, aspiring, enterprising and "ready unto every good work." Then schools will arise and learning will advance. Every nation has a soil of its own, and an atmosphere and a sky somewhat peculiar to itself, but God has given one Bible to the race; and, in the language of an old heathen poet, quoted by the Apostle Paul, "we are all his offspring."

morning."

CHARITY.

It is the duty of a man to love his greatest foe,
And shield the arm that late was raised to work his direst wo:
Just so the scented sandal tree, in all its pride and bloom,
Sheds on the axe that lays it low a sweet and rich perfume.

DESULTORY SPECULATOR.

LIFE.

joyed, and have passed away, he still looks forward to more substantial and enduring happiness beyond the grave. All human pursuit and human exertion terminate in this common boundary.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

I look upon life as a sickly and feverish dream. Its highest enjoyments are transient and fluctuating, and its realities painful and vapid. The poet of nature has with great truth exclaimed, "How dull, stale, flat, and unprofitable, are all the uses of this life." To him who has passed its meridian, and descended into the vale of years, its uses will indeed appear "dull and unprofita-ed-the unsubstantial pageants he has sighed for, and ble." He looks back upon the irregular and devious path he has trodden, and perhaps remembers with regret, the few flowers he has culled and left to perish, and looks forward to the barren waste that lies before him. He may recall the joyous feelings of his youth, when fancy dipped her pinions in the rainbow hues of hope-when all the breathing scenes, and gorgeous and living pictures of this world, were "beauty to his eye and music to his ear;" but, while he remembers them, he sickens at the thought that they were but the "base-subjects, dreaded by my enemies, and respected by my

less fabrics of a vision"-the glittering and evanescent baubles of fleeting enjoyment-which have

"Gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were."

And what is life?

"A summer's day!

That dawns bedewed with icy tears;
Youth glitters like the orient ray,
Till busy, toilsome noon appears:
Then as the sultry sun descends,

The dim horizon shadowy grows,
While nought but gloom and care remain,

To veil the scene at evening's close."

But what is life? To the great majority of mankind it is, after all, but a mere struggle for existence-a constant effort to procure a modicum of food and raiment. To this end, man labors through life-passes off, and is succeeded by others, who pursue the same dull and beaten path. In civilized, as well as savage life, man is propelled by the same impulses, and struggles after the same object. They, indeed, who are born to opulence, are not governed by the same necessity; but are stimulated to action by another motive-the love of pleasure, power, or fame. But action of some sort is essential. To all, the great Creator has issued his mandate, that virtuous action is indispensable to human happiness. The motionless and unagitated lake, may please the eye by its apparent placidity and repose, while its waters are putrid and its particles pregnant with the seeds of pestilence and death. He who labors for mere subsistence, gives strength and activity to his body, and consequent energy to his mind; and he who seeks fame, or wealth, or power, must be intellectually, if not physically employed. He feels the stimulus which gives him pleasure, and he bounds forward from cliff to cliff, in his ascent, till death closes all his exertions, toils, and hopes. Disappointment does not always arrest his career, but sometimes adds new ardor to his pursuit and fresh vigor to his efforts.

"Man never is, but always to be blessed."

He lives and acts in the anticipation of future good; and when all the sickly realities of human life have been en

And when, at the close of life, and he is about to plunge into the fathomless ocean of eternity, he casts back his eye upon the varied scenes through which he has passed-the toilsome and painful march he has accomplishthe melancholy ruins of blasted hope or of wild ambition, he must exclaim, in the language of Pindar, “ We are shadows, and the dreams of shadows are all our fancies conceive!" Abdulraman, the third Caliph of Cordova, had full experience of the vanity of the world, when he pronounced the memorable summary of the days of happiness he had enjoyed: "I have now reigned above fifty years in victory or peace, beloved by my

allies-riches and honors, power and pleasure have waited on my call-nor does any earthly blessing appear to have been wanting to my felicity. In this situation I have diligently numbered the days of pure and genuine happiness which have fallen to my lot: they amount to FOURTEEN !-Oh, man! place not thy confidence in this present world." How very few can say even this. Fourteen days of happiness out of fifty years of existence, are more than fall to the share of the great mass of mankind. What is life after all? A fitful | dream or a painful reality. Misfortunes embitter, miseries sour, and guilt poisons its enjoyment. Who would wish to live over the years he has numbered? To pass along the same path-to feel the same emotions-to witness the same sickly pageants, and to experience the same ingratitude, contumely, oppression, and wrong? It is made up of moments that are wasted-of days that are misspent-and of years that only fill up the brief span of life, and leave but the memory of the past behind.

"To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death."

Let man then regard this world merely as a preparatory stage to a future and eternal state of existence. Let him consider his misfortunes, sufferings, and miseries, as intended to prepare him the better for a world of undying glory and happiness, and let him persevere in a course of virtue and usefulness, in contempt of the malignity of his enemies, and the storms of adversity that beat around him, and he will infallibly attain to that perfection and happiness hereafter, which should constitute the only true end and aim of all human exertion and pursuit.

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CROSS READING.

One of the first specimens of cross reading was given by the celebrated Cardinal RICHELIEU, in a letter to the French Ambassador at Rome, dated the 23d of November, 1638, in which he gives a true character of a person who had been soliciting him for some time, for a recommendation to that functionary. It is as follows"Master CAMPY, a Savoyard by birth, | friar of the order of St. Benedict,

is the man who will present to you this letter. He is one of the most vicious persons that I ever knew; he has long and earnestly solicited me to give him a suitable character, which I have accordingly granted to his importunity; for, believe me, sir, I would be sorry that you should be mistaken in not knowing him well, as some worthy people have been, and those among the best of my friends. I think it my duty to advise you, to take especial care of this man ; nor venture to say any thing before him, in any sort. For I may and really do assure you, there cannot be a more unworthy person in the whole world, I well know that as soon as ever you shall become acquainted with him, you will thank me for this my advice. Civility obliges me to desist from saying any more upon the subject.

the notification communicated by me in discreet, the wisest, and the least among all that I have conversed with: to write to you in his favor, and together with a letter of credence; his merit rather than to

he deserves infinitely your esteem; and wanting in serving him, from being I should be afflicted if you were so, on that score; but now esteem him Wherefore, and from no other motive, that you are most particularly obliged to show him all the respect imaginable, that may either offend or displease him, truly say, I love him as myself, and convincing argument of a mean and than to be base enough to injure him; are made sensible of his virtues, and will love him as well as I do, and The assurance I entertain of your urging this matter on you further, or I am, sir, your affectionate friend,

RICHELIEU."

I wonder if our present worthy President has ever thought of this scheme. It would have been useful to him in the palmy state of his popularity.

While on this subject I must not omit another specimen of this species of ingenious deception. It is taken from an old history of popery, published in 1679, and called the Jesuits' creed in England, and will suit either catholic or protestant.

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GOD.

BY C. M. F. DEEMS.

His power!-a word, and from the deep
This earth, with beauty rife,
Shook off the incubus of sleep,
And started into life.

He spake and radiant floods of light
Came streaming o'er its gloom,
And sweetest flowers spread to the sight
The richness of their bloom.

It measured out the billowy sea,
It piled the mountain high;
His power has caused the stars to be-

'Tis written on the sky.

His voice!-when gently breathes the morn,
The voice of God is there;
Its accents, too, are softly borne

Upon the evening air.

The deep-toned cadence of its wrath,

Speaks in the thunder's roar,

When strides the storm-sprite o'er his path, And shakes the trembling shore.

But, oh! its deepest melody

Breaks on the troubled soul,
When first it sets the spirit free,
And makes the wounded whole.

His presence!-if there were a spot
Of earth on which we dwell,
Where it were said that God is not,
That spot would be a hell.

His presence fills the heaven of heaven
With its supreme delight,

And from his dazzling throne is given
The glory of its light.

Creation quakes beneath His frown,
Worlds fly before his nod;
The boundless universe must own
The presence of its God.

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How mournful is it to realize the truth that Death, the slayer, has laid his cold finger upon the young and beautiful, and swept them from the earth forever. It is mournful at all times! but when his dread wing has been flapped over those with whom we were associated by the deep feelings of natural affection, or the tender ties of love, it is doubly mournful! How mournful and how bitter is it to enter the darkened chamber, and mark the awful change that has passed over forms which, perchance, on yesterday moved gaily and happily down the great stream of life-to behold the lip on whose words we lingered, mute and still-the heart, whose beatings were all in unison with our own, motionless and calm-the hand, with whose every touch we were familiar, dull and heavy-the pulse that swelled in warmth and freedom, throbbing no more— the eye, whose glance had often met our own, glazed and fixed-the smile that once interpreted our lightest wish, departed-the brow cold-the breath choked, and the frame pressed in the mouldering coffin, where the worm will feed upon it, and where the cold damp earth will rot and decay it.

will know no voice until awakened in a brighter world. Peace to that young heart--rest to that fair form!

The wife and the mother sat there. She was so no longer. Many trials had she gone through— these were the heaviest,-many afflictions had she passed by-these were the bitterest. The window at which Mrs. Morton sat, commanded a view, which at that hour might well have attracted her attention. But her thoughts flowed in a far different channel. The themes on which she mused, were dark and melancholy; and as they, one by one, glided before her, and gave way but to new doubts and fears, the tears of affliction gushed from her eyes, and swept, drop by drop, down her pale cheeks. There comes an hour to all, when hope, though an evergreen, blooms in vain-or blooming, as it springs up is withered by the hot winds of despair!

It was the morning of the day on which she was to witness the remains of her husband and her daughter placed in the grave. Many were already gathered around the house. As she sat in the recess of the low window of the room, and looked forth upon the people beneath, their words reached her ears. They were speaking of the child's death, and alluding to its guiltless murderer.

"Of what country was he ?" inquired one.
"An Italian," was the answer.

"What was his name?" asked another.
"Francis Armine," was the immediate reply of
many.

Mrs. Morton heard no more. At the mention of that name, a sudden dizziness came over her, and she swooned away.

chanting, as they walked along, a low and plaintive song, and at moments changing the air to one thrillingly sweet and touching, which sounded like tones of hope bursting on the despairing mind; then could be seen an immense multitude of citizens drawn together in sympathy for the survivor.

The funeral procession swept on. First came the bier, drawn by two black horses, and surmounted by dark and gloomy plumes; then followed the principal mourner, with the relatives of the deceased. The There was sorrow and death in the dwelling of Mor-venerable clergy, with whom Morton had been assoton. It was a strange contrast between the joy and ciated, came next, with slow and measured tread. brightness of the outward scene, and the gloom and Next came a great number of little children, the acsadness of that house of mourning. Sweetly and beauti-quaintances and schoolmates of the deceased daughter, fully had the light of another day trembled from the distant portals of the east upon the earth. That light streamed through the closed curtains of the chamber, and fell upon a bed on which lay the unconscious dead-the father and the child. Though the death of the former had been a violent one, he seemed to have passed away without much pain. His features were calm and settled—the hands, that had performed many kind deeds, hung heavily at his side-the eyes, that had looked love and affection, were dull and rayless-the form, that had moved among the living but a few hours previous, in manly pride, had returned to senseless clay and the young girl, that Francis Armine had innocently robbed of life and sent to her long resting place ere the world had withered her affections, seemed as though she had fallen into a gentle slumber. How many sweet thoughts went down with that beautiful child to the voiceless grave! Thoughts of home-of happiness of joy, and peace,--thoughts, that may not yet have burst forth, and awaited but some genial touch, to make them flow like cooling waters from the rock of old,—thoughts of love and affection, that had not yet clustered around that pure mind—and that, alas!

:

And thus the procession moved on. It had swept through the streets of Paris-thronged with awestricken spectators--and wherever it moved, the gay laugh of life was stilled, and the hum of business was hushed. Already had it passed through the city and reached the heights of Charron, on which is situated that quiet resting place-the last and silent home of the illustrious and noble dead-Pere la Chaise.

That funeral train was a melancholy spectacle. The dreary bier with its death-like plumes-the mourners— the clergy-the children, and the long line of citizens, as well as the perfect silence that reigned around, rendered it sacred and solemn to the most unfeeling spectator. The song of the children had ceased-the cry of the mourners could not be heard, and the whisperings of the assembled multitude were hushed. still-awfully still-within the city of the dead. The VOL. IV-88

All was

mourners stood around the graves-the coffins were lowered the earth was dropped upon them, but its hollow sound could scarce be heard amid the loud and piercing lament that then went up as if from every lip. And now the vast crowd of carriages and foot passengers moved homewards-stream upon stream rushed from the heights of Charron, down towards Paris, and in a short time nearly all of that dense and serried crowd had disappeared.

he would'nt make such a sorry spectacle of a friend who has served him like a brave fellow through all his little sprees, and so forth, on the road."

"He would though. To be sure he was very easy, when our company first selected him; but splice me if he has'nt become the tightest rogue that ever backed a horse in the glance of old Oliver.* He shot that great preacher the other night who was buried to-day; and, I'm told, has said that he intended to quit us. France is getting too hot for him, and he'd better leave it."

The robbers became silent, for the person of whom they were speaking, had joined them. He was about the middle height, of a sinewy frame, and presented altogether a brave and chivalric bearing, well calculated for the situation of captain of the followers of Robin Hood.

"Ha! Captain Montanvers."

"Well, my merry men, how fares the lady since I left her?"

"Better, far better, captain," replied Allen. "Hush! hush, man-not so loud. Go you Allen to the common yonder, and inform me when any traveller comes in sight. I have suspicions that some one has blabbed on us—go you—quick."

And he departed, chanting such rude ditties as this, as he walked along

But Mrs. Morton, overcome with fatigue and sorrow, sat in her carriage alone, and moved slowly towards the city. She seemed lingering to gaze upon that spot to which the living never turn save in sadness. At this time a change came over the scene. The clouds that had before passed along silent and unnoticed, now swept swiftly over the southern part of the sky. A low yet distant thunder was heard-the air, before refreshing, now became sultry and oppressive—and then suddenly the bending pines gave warning that the tempest would follow. And it did come. Masses of thickened clouds rushed in gloomy ranks up the heavens, and contended, like giant gladiators, in the savage and convulsive struggle-nearer and nearer shouted the thunder-swifter and swifter flashed the manyforked lightning, and darkness mantled the outstretched wall of heaven-above and about the earth it descended in one far-spreading intense banner of gloomwhen the spirit of the tempest moved abroad, and shook out his rainy shroud upon the earth, and fast and fiercely Some time elapsed ere Mrs. Morton was conscious of it poured and fell. It lasted but for a short time, and her situation. During the night she had talked and ere it came again, a horseman dashed by the carriage raved and suffered-she had, in her delirium, spoken of of Mrs. Morton. As he passed, the whole earth was events and named names, which none but the captain lighted up with an intense and brilliant glare. That of whom we have spoken knew, and which of course light enabled Mrs. Morton clearly to see the horse-none but him understood. When she awoke, daylight man. As she did so, a gladness beamed upon her was streaming into the window of a room of which she melancholy countenance. Her heart was in her eyes; was the only occupant. She looked around, and wonand as they gazed, the warm tears of joy fell uncon-dered where she was, and then her recollection returned, sciously from them. "Do I dream? No-no! It is and all the grief that had weighed upon her spirit again him! That form, I could never forget it! Would that came rushing back like the chilling waters of some he were nearer! Would that I could again hear his mighty stream. voice! I will!-I will!"

At that instant the carriage struck violently against a huge rock in the road, and suddenly overset. The boy driver, escaping unhurt from the vehicle, hastened to assist Mrs. Morton, and found her thrown some distance from the seat and senseless.

CHAPTER VIII.

My mind misgives

Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin this fearful date.

Romeo and Juliet.

Since I came hither I have heard strange news.

King Lear.

"Softly, softly--here approaches the captain. Should he witness your mutinous arm raised so high, be sure he'd tear it off and beat you to death with the bloody stump," said a little man, evidently of the lowest order, to one of the same stamp, as they stood in the door of a small house on the road side, near Paris.

"Hist!" returned the companion, looking at the captain, who was near the house; and sinking his voice, "Allen, you sly dog, the captain may be tyrannical, but

"Much sweeter than honey
Is other men's money!"

"Where am I?" cried she, rising from the bed. "My brother-my brother--surely I have seen him. No!--it was but a dream!"

A man entered-it was Allen.

"Your service, madam," said he, bowing low. The captain asked me to thank you for your condescension in honoring his humble roof, and says your carriage is now at the door, which, thinking you might wish to return to your home early, he had sent to the village and repaired."

"Thanks--many thanks--it is already late, and I will start immediately. To whom do I owe this hospitality."

“Why, madam, it was nothing but right-seeing that the night was dark and stormy, and your carriage broke down. I hope your ladyship was not hurt, although you looked awful pale when we found you. This is captain Montanvers' house, and I am sure that any one in distress is welcome here."

"Could I see that gentleman, and thank him personally for his kindness?" asked she.

"Oh! no, madam: the captain is--is unwell;" and as he spoke he walked towards the door. The lady fol

• The moon.

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