struck down and murdered before his eyes, and at that very moment, on that very spot, he devoted himself to the cause of universal freedom; to that cause he gave the labors of his life, to that the labors of his life were devoted, and to it his life was at last sacrificed. He knew that he should encounter scorn, obloquy, opposition. He feared them not. He met them; he defied them; he overcame them. He outlived the scorn; he lived down the obloquy; he fought down the opposition. He saw the great cause in which he was engaged on the eve of a glorious triumph. Before he died he saw it -not as Moses saw the promised land, at a distance-he saw it at his very feet. He saw it as Joshua saw the land of Palestine when he crossed the river Jordan, from the thirsty regions of Moab, and planted his steps on a soil fresh with the dews and flowers of heaven."

Then if the person whom I imagine to speak were in the habit of drawing broad conclusions from particular instances, and deducing solemn and sublime moralities from the practical aspect of things, he might go on to say:

"Let no man who looks at this monument ever be discouraged in a good cause. Let him first satisfy his conscience as to the merits of his cause, its truth, its righteousness, its humanity. Let him satisfy himself that he is in the line of his duty, and then let him enter upon it fearlessly with a heart assured that he is approved of his God, that his labor will be crowned with success, that his cause will finally triumph. For evil is temporary; evil is mortal; it is doomed by a necessity of its nature to yield to dissolution. But good is permanent, deathless, eternal, destined to prevail over all oppression, and sure of a glorious triumph; for God is with it."

There is a portion of the liturgy of the Episcopal church which has always seemed to me exceedingly beautiful and affecting. It is that in which the worshippers give thanks to Almighty God for the lives of those who have labored or suffered for the truth, and have passed away, leaving worthy and shining examples of self-sacrifice and of goodness for the imitation of mankind. A monument like the one of which I have spoken erected in the neighborhood, in some conspicuous place, would be a standing, visible, perpetual acknowledgment of public gratitude to the Author of all Good that such a man as Owen Lovejoy lived, that such a citizen was given to this country.

William Cullen Bryant, 1864.

II.

MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS..

SPEECH OF MARCELLUS TO THE ROMAN MOB.

WHEREFORE rejoice? That Cæsar comes in triumph? What conquests 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! O 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 livelong 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 her banks, to hear the replication of your sounds made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? and do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, pray to the gods to intermit the plagues that needs must light on this ingratitude.

Shakespeare.

THE CURSE OF REGULUS.

THE palaces and domes of Carthage were burning with the splendors of noon, and the blue waves of her harbor were rolling and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An attentive ear could catch a low murmur, sounding from the centre of the city, which seemed like the moaning of the wind before a tempest. And well it might. The whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded by the report that Regulus had returned, were pouring, a mighty tide, into the great square before the Senate House. There were mothers

in that throng, whose captive sons were groaning in Roman fetters; maidens, whose lovers were dying in the distant dungeons of Rome; gray-haired men and matrons, whom Roman steel had made childless; men, who were seeing their country's life crushed out by Roman power; and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the vast throng gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of long years.

Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around him, stood Regulus, the Roman! He stretched his arm over the surging crowd with a gesture as proudly imperious, as though he stood at the head of his own gleaming cohorts. Before that silent command the tumult ceased-the half-uttered execration died upon the lip-so intense was the silence that the clank of the captive's brazen manacles smote sharp on every ear, as he thus addressed them:

"Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman virtue by your own, that I would break my plighted faith, rather than by returning, and leaving your sons and brothers to rot in Roman dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I could give reasons for this return, foolish and inexplicable as it seems to you; I could speak of yearnings after immortalityof those eternal principles in whose pure light a patriot's death is glorious, a thing to be desired; but by great Jove! I should debase myself to dwell on such high themes to you. If the bright blood which feeds my heart were like the slimy ooze that stagnates in your veins, I should have remained at Rome, saved my life and broken my oath. If, then, you ask, why I have come back, to let you work your will on this poor body which I esteem but as the rags that cover it, enough reply for you, it is because I am a Roman! As such, here in your very capital I defy you! What I have done, ye never can undo; what ye may do, I care not. Since first my young arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not routed your armies, burned your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels? And do ye now expect to see me cower and whine with dread of Carthaginian vengeance? Compared to that fierce mental strife which my heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing of this flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but sport to me.

"Venerable senators, with trembling voices and outstretched hands, besought me to return no more to Carthage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly-tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a beloved mother, her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her furrowed cheeks

praying me not to leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Compared to anguish like this, the paltry torments you have in store is as the murmur of the meadow brook to the wild tumult of the mountain storm. Go! bring your threatened tortures! The woes I see impending over this fated city will be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve should tingle with its agony. I die-but mine shall be the triumph; yours the untold desolation. For every drop of blood that falls from my veins, your own shall pour in torrents! Wo, unto thee, O Carthage! I see thy homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, thy women wailing for the dead. Proud city! thou art doomed! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting curse is on thee! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. Rome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged-thus again do I devote thee to the infernal gods!

Now, bring forth your tortures! Slaves! while ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he would have carved you! Burn deep as his curse!

METAMORA TO HIS WARRIORS.

SACHEMS, chiefs, and warriors! Metamora has told his brothers of the many aggressions and insults of the pale-faces, and the outrage upon his family. Metamora cannot lie. He has told his brothers that the heart of the pale-face is like his skin, white and without blood,-that good sap of the tree, that makes its branches spread afar, and give shelter and fruit to all. Metamora cannot lie. He has told his brothers that the Great Spirit, who provides for all his creatures, made a land for the white man as well as for his red children. That land made by the Good Spirit must be good; and if these pale-faces were good in their hearts, they would live in their own land that their Father gave them. If they are not good, the red man should treat them as the panther, that comes to his wigwam to steal the deer that he has hunted, or the bird that he has shot with his arrow. Metamora cannot lie. When a red man makes a visit of peace to a brother's wigwam, he feeds at his fire, drinks of his bowl,

smokes of the prophet-plant, and departs in peace. We received the white man as we receive a brother; he fed at our fire, smoked of the friendly pipe, and danced with our squaws; but he never departs. He still stays, eats of our meat, warms by our fires, craves more and more from us, measures the very ground that we loaned him to sport on, and claims it as his own. Was he not afraid to track even the deer of the hills, or the bear of the forest, for a meal? Did not the red man hunt the buffalo, the buck, the otter, and slay them to feed and keep him warm? And when the Great Spirit, angry at their stay, talked louder than the roar of their mighty rifles, and shook their big canoes in his wrath, did we not dive into the mad waters around them, and save them from going down to the water-spirit in their splintered barks? Did not the red men dry them by their fires, give them the soft fur of the otter to lie on, and shelter and protect them, till our prophets soothed the Great Spirit's anger, and he talked no more in thunder? And now they stay long, and want more-more-more. Like the wolf-dog, feed him, and he'll come again; give him our beds, and he bites us; fatten him, and he'll drive us from our wigwam. They show us books, which they say will tell us of the Great Spirit. We know the Great Spirit without books. He whispers to us in the breeze; he sings to us in the wind-cloud and the waterfall; he talks to us in thunder, and our hearts answer; we see his frown in the storm-cloud, his smile in the warm face of the eternal sun; the great blue tent above is his wigwam, and the stars are his watch-fires! The red men need no books to tell them this, for this is all truth. White men make books, and white men lie! They take from us, while they tell us that they come to give; but the red man wants no gifts, save the gifts of Him who owns all, and who can give without taking from another. When the red man makes war upon his brother, he comes to him as his foe, and shows the tomahawk, the bow and arrow, and the plume of the eagle; but these pale-faces come with peace upon their lips, with their hands empty, but wear the little rifle and the knife, like a snake hid within their bosoms, to plunge into the heart of the red man. In this do they not lie? They are as false as the snow-bank in the spring; if we rest upon it it sinks with us. The white man talks of peace; but Metamora tells his brothers that their big canoes are still landing from over the salt lake, filled with rifles, thunderguns, and their long knives of war. Metamora cannot lie. When we ask the white man what all these are for, he tells us they are for hunting, and destroying the wolf, the panther,