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 his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts.

16. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from within begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances 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.

2. Closing Remarks.

1. Gentlemen, your whole concern should be to do your duty, and leave consequences to take care of themselves. You will receive the law from the court. Your verdict, it is true, may endanger the prisoner's life; but then it is to save other lives. If the prisoner's guilt has been shown and proved beyond all reasonable doubt, you will convict him. If reasonable doubts of guilt still remain, you will acquit him.

2. You are the judges of the whole case. You owe a duty to the public as well as to the prisoner at the bar. You cannot presume to be wiser than the law. Your duty is a plain, straightforward one. Doubtless we would all judge him in mercy. Toward him, as an individual, the law inculcates no hostility; but toward him, if proved to be a murderer, the law, and the oaths you have taken, and public justice, demand that you do your duty.

3. With consciences satisfied with the discharge of duty. no consequences can harm you. There is no evil that we cannot either face, or fly from, but the consciousness of duty disregarded. A sense of duty pursues us ever. It is omnipresent, like the Deity. If we take to ourselves the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of

the sea, duty performed, or duty violated, is still with us, for our happiness or our misery.

4. If we say the darkness shall cover us, in the darkness as in the light our obligations are with us. We cannot escape their power, nor fly from their presence. They are with us in this life, they will be with us at its close; and in that scene of inconceivable solemnity, which lies yet farther onward, we shall still find ourselves surrounded by the consciousness of duty,-to pain us wherever it has been violated, and to console us so far as God may have given us grace to perform it.

The biographers of Mr. Webster note his fondness for such books as the Bible, Milton, and Homer. On their simplicity, gravity, depth of feeling, and strength of imagination, he founded his style. Professor Lieber, a German refugee, and a distinguished scholar and author, writes of Webster as follows:-" Everything in him was capacious,―large; he was a statesman of Chatham's type, I think. The best speeches of Webster are among the very best that I am acquainted with in the whole range of oratory, ancient or modern. They have always ap peared to me to belong to that simple and manly class which may be properly headed by the name of Demosthenes. Webster's speeches sometimes bring before my mind the image of the Cyclopean walls, stone upon stone, compact, firm, and grand."

CHAPTER XLII.-MISCELLANEOUS.

[The original of the following story is told by the French preacher, St. Foix, in his Art of Educating a Prince, and is retold in German by Schiller, from whom it is here translated by Bulwer. A part of the story is also told in verse by Leigh Hunt. The date of the story is the reign of Francis the First of France (1494–1547), who was

devoted to royal sports, and who established court rules of honor and chivalry.]

The Arena and the Glove.

1. Before his lion-court,

To see the grisly sport,
Sate the king;

Beside him grouped his princely peers,
And dames aloft, in circling tiers,
Wreathed round their blooming ring.

2. King Francis, where he sate,
Raised a finger;-yawned the gate;
And slow from his repose

3.

A finger raised the king,-
And nimbly have the guard
A second gate unbarred;
Forth, with a rushing spring,

A tiger sprung!

Wildly the wild one yelled

When the lion he beheld;

And, bristling at the look,

With his tail his sides he strook,
And rolled his rabid tongue;

In many a wary ring

He swept round the forest king,
With a fell and rattling sound;
Then laid him on the ground,

Grommelling!

4. The king raised his finger; then Leaped two leopards from the den With a bound;

And boldly bounded they

Where the crouching tiger lay

Terrible!

And he griped the beasts in his deadly hold;
In the grim embrace they grappled and rolled.
Rose the lion with a roar!

And stood the strife before;

And the wild-cats on the spot,

From the blood-thirst, wroth and hot,
Halted still!

5. Now, from the balcony above,

A snowy hand let fall a glove
Midway between the beasts of prey,
Lion and tiger; there it lay,

The winsome lady's glove!

6. Fair Cunigonde said, with a lip of scorn,

To the knight De Lorge, "If the love you have sworn Were as gallant and leal as you boast it to be,

I might ask you to bring back that glove to me!"

7. The knight left the place where the lady sate; The knight he has passed through the fearful gate: The lion and tiger he stooped above,

And his fingers have closed on the lady's glove!

8. All shuddering and stunned, they beheld him thereThe noble knights and the ladies fair;

But loud was the joy and the praise the while
He bore back the glove with his tranquil smile.

9. With a tender look in her softening eyes,
That promised reward to his warmest sighs,

Fair Cunigonde rose her knight to grace:

He tossed the glove in the lady's face!

"Nay, spare me the guerdon, at least," quoth he;
And he left forever that fair ladye!

Leigh Hunt ends the story as follows:

She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained his

place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"In faith,” cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

CHAPTER XLIII.-WASHINGTON IRVING.-1783-1859.

I.-Biographical.

1. A hundred years ago New York was a town of fifty thousand inhabitants, lying below the present City Hall Park. Its houses had broken gables toward the street, with large doors and small windows, with iron figures denoting the date of construction built in over the front entrance, which was adorned with a big brass knocker. The manners of the people were quaint and solemn; and everything presented the aspect of a provincial Dutch town. Legends of Kidd and other freebooters and pirates were connected with the upper part of the island. The city was far from having the motley cosmopolitan character which it now exhibits.

2. Amidst such scenes, Washington Irving, the youngest of five brothers, all evincing literary tastes, was born in