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9 other delights; who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle ! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thy high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan : very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished !
On receiving his Mother's Picture.-CowPER.
1 My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 2 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
And where the gardener Robin, day by day
Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped 4 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 5 The biscuit or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 7 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Exordium of a Speech on a Trial for Murder.WEBSTER.
AGAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not 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 2 extraordinary case. In some respects, it has hardly a precedent
any where ; 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 longsettled or deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, moneymaking murder. It was all “ hire and salary, not revenge."
It was the weighing of money against life; the counting 3 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. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it as it has been exhibited in an example, where such example was last to have been looked for in the very bosom of our New Eng
land society, let him not give it the grim visage of Moloch, 4
the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the bloodshot 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, 5 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; and he en6 ters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the beans 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, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure 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 7 the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart,
and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels 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 escapes. He has done the murder--no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe!
Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful' mistake. Such a 8 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 every thing, as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men.
True it is, generally speaking, that " murder will out.” Irue it is that Providence haih 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 9 come, and will come, sooner or later.-A thousand eyes
turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or ræther, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do 10 with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. (It finds itself preyed on by a torment which it does not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer 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, reads it in 11 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
conquers pruWhen suspicions, from without, begin to embarrass 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--and suicide is confession.
The Indian as he was and as he is.--SPRAGUE. Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate.