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and misfortune of the church, for that which contributes to its glory, its dignity, and its strength.

Sir, there are two petitions at this moment in this House, against two of the wisest and best measures which ever came into the British Parliament-against the impending corn law, and against the Catholic emancipation; the one bill intended to increase the comforts, and the other to allay the bad passions of man. Sir, I am not in a situation of life to do much good, but I will take care that I will not willingly do any evil. The wealth of the Riding would not tempt me to petition against either of those bills. With the corn bill I have nothing to do at this time. Of the Cath

olic emancipation bill, I shall say, that it will be the foundation stone of a lasting religious peace; that it will give to Ireland, not all that it wants, but what it most wants, and without which, no other boon will be of any avail.

When this bill passes, it will be a signal to all the religious sects of that unhappy country to lay aside their mutual hatred, and to live in peace, as equal men should live under equal law. When this bill passes, the Orange flag will fall. When this bill passes, the green flag of the rebel will fall. When this bill passes, no other flag will fly in the land of Erin, than that flag which blends the Lion with the Harpthat flag which, wherever it does fly, is the sign of Freedom and of Joy-the only banner in Europe which floats over a limited King and a free people.


MINDS, which have any claim to greatness, are capable of divesting themselves of selfish considerations: they feel that they belong to the whole human race; and, their views are directed to posterity alone. I was the friend of men who have been proscribed and immolated by delusion, and the hatred of jealous mediocrity. It is necessary that I should perish in my turn, because it is a rule with tyranny to sacrifice those whom it has grievously oppressed, and to annihilate the very witnesses of its misdeeds. I have this double claim to death from your hands, and I expect it. When innocence

walks to the scaffold, at the command of error and perversity, every step she takes is an advance towards glory. May I be the last victim sacrificed to the furious spirit of party! I shall quit with joy this unfortunate earth, which swallows up the friends of virtue, and drinks the blood of the just.

Truth! friendship! my country! sacred objects, sentiments dear to my heart, accept my last sacrifice. My life was devoted to you, and you will render my death easy and glorious.

Just heaven! enlighten this unfortunate people for whom I desire liberty. . . . Liberty!-It is for noble minds. It is not for weak beings, who enter into a composition with guilt, and cover selfishness and cowardice with the name of prudence. It is not for corrupt wretches, who rise from the bed of debauchery, or from the mire of indigence, to feast their eyes on the blood that streams from the scaffold. It is the portion of a people who delight in humanity, practise justice, despise their flatterers, and respect the truth. While you are not such a people, O my fellow citizens! you will talk in vain of liberty: instead of liberty you will have licentiousness, of which you will all fall victims in your turns: you will ask for bread; and dead bodies will be given you; and you will at last bow down your necks to the yoke.

I have neither concealed my sentiments nor my opinions. I know that a Roman lady was sent to the scaffold for lamenting the death of her son. I know that in times of delusion and party rage, he, who dares avow himself the friend of the proscribed, exposes himself to their fate. But I despise death; I never feared anything but guilt, and I will not purchase life at the expense of a base subterfuge. Wo to the times! wo to the people among whom doing homage to disregarded truth can be attended with danger; and happy he who in such circumstances is bold enough to brave it!


Extract from JUDGE STORY'S Discourse, before the Essex Historical Society, September 18, 1828.

In the fate of the aborigines of our country-the American Indians-there is, my friends, much to awaken our

sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgments; much which may be urged to excuse their atrocities; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams, and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the Lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace, and the dark encampment startled the wild beast in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home, prepared for the brave, beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships.

If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth? The sachems and the tribes? The hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No,-nor famine, nor war. There has been

a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores-a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated-a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which they may now call their own. Already, the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, 'few and faint, yet fearless still.' The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, un

They turn to take a
They cast a last
They shed no tears;
There is some-

steady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. last look of their deserted villages. glance upon the graves of their fathers. they utter no cries; they heave no groans. thing in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which choaks all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,-no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them, an impassable gulf. They know, and feel, that there is for them, still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial ground of their



WHEREFORE rejoice, that Cæsar comes in triumph?
What conquest brings he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
0 you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers, and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his bands,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now call out a holyday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?

Be gone

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude.


SOLDIERS and friends! we soon shall reach the ground,
Where your poor country waits the sacrifice,
The holiest offering of her children's blood!
Here have we come, not for the lust of conquest,
Not for the booty of the lawless plunderer;
No, friends, we come to tell our proud invaders,
That we will use our strength to purchase freedom!
Freedom, prime blessing of this fleeting life,
Is there a man that hears thy sacred name,
And thrills not to the sound with loftiest hope,
With proud disdain of tyrant whips and chains?
Much-injured friends, your slavish hours are past!
Conquest is ours! not that your German swords
Have keener edges than the Roman falchions,-
Not that your shields are stouter, nor your armour
Impervious to the swift and deadly lance,-
Not that your ranks are thicker than the Roman;
No, no, they will outnumber you, my soldiers;-
But that your cause is good! they are poor slaves
Who fight for hire and plunder, pampered ruffians,
Who have no souls for glory. We are Germans;
Who here are bound, by oaths indissoluble,
To keep your glorious birthrights or to die!
This is a field where beardless boys might fight,
And looking on the angel Liberty,

Might put such mettle in their baby-arms,
That veteran chiefs would ill ward off their blows.
I say no more, my dear and trusty friends!
Your glorious rallying-cry has music in it,
To rouse the sleepiest spirit from his trance,-—
For Freedom and Germania!

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