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Liberty came to a race crouching under Egyptian whips, and led them forth from the House of Bondage She hardened them in the desert and made of them a race of conquerors.
The free spirit
of the Mosaic law took their thinkers up to heights where they beheld the unity of God, and inspired their poets
with strains that yet phrase the highest exaltations of thought. Liberty dawned on thePhoenician coast and ships passed the Pillars of Hercules to plow the unknown seaso She broke in partial light on Greece, and marble grew to shapes of ideal beauty, words became the instruments of subtlest thought, and against the scanty militia of all free cities the countless hosts of the Great King broke like surges against a rock. She cast her beams on the four-acre farms of Italian husbandmen, and born of her strength a power came forth that conquered the world! She glinted from shields of German warriors, and Augustus wept his legions. Out of the night that followed her eclipse, her slanting rays fell again on free cities, and a lost learning revived, modern civilization began, a new world was unveiled; and as Liberty grew so grew art, wealth, power, knowledge and refinement do do
In the history of every nation we may read the same truth. It was the strength born of Magna Charta that won Crecy and Agincourt. It was the revival of Liberty from the despotism of the Tudors
that glorified the Elizabethan age. It was the spirit that brought a crowned tyrant to the block that planted here the seed of a mighty tree. It was the energy of ancient freedom that, the moment it had gained unity, made Spain the mightiest power of the world, only to fall to the lowest depths of weakness when tyranny succeeded liberty. See, in France, all intellectual vigor dying under the tyranny of the seventeenth century to revive in splendor as Liberty awoke in the eighteenth, and on the enfranchisement of the French peasants in the great revolution, basing the wonderful strength that has in our time laughed at disaster.
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken
And so live ever-or else swoon to death.
"Last Sonnet,” by John Keats
shall do for the nation that fully accepts and loyally cherishes her, the wondrous inventions, which are the marked features of this century, give us but a hint .
A hundred years have passed since the fast friend of American liberty-the great Earl Chatham-rose to make his last appeal for the preservation, on the basis of justice, of that English-speaking empire, in which he saw the grandest possibility of the future. Is it too soon to hope that the future may hold the realization of his vision in a nobler form than even he imagined, and that it may be the mission of this Republic to unite all the nations of English speech, whether they grow beneath the Northern Star or Southern Cross, in a league which by insuring justice, promoting peace, and liberating commerce, will be the forerunner of a world-wide federation that will make war the possibility of a past age, and turn to works of usefulness the enormous forcesnow dedicated to destruc
Not till it accepts that message can the world have peace. Lock over the history of the past. What is it but a record of the woes inflicted by man on man, of wrong producing wrong, and crime fresh crime? It must be so till justice is acknowledged and liberty is law
Is this the dream of IT has been thought a considerable
advance towards establishing the principles of freedom to say, that government is a compact between those who govern and those who are governed: but this can not be true, because it is putting the effect before the cause; for as man must have existed before governments existed, there necessarily was a time when governments did not exist, and consequently there could originally exist no governors to form such a compact with.
The fact therefore must be that the individuals themselves, each in his own personal and sovereign right, entered into a compact with each other to produce a government: and this is the only mode in which governments have a right to arise, and the only principle on which they have a right to exist.
Who is Liberty that we should doubt
Not here; but yet she cometh! Saints have seen her in their visions; seers have seen her in their trance. To heroes has she spoken, and their hearts were strong; to martyrs, and the flames were cool!
She is not here, but yet she cometh. Lo! her feet are on the mountains-the call of her clarions ring on every breeze; the banners of her dawning fret the sky! Who will hear her as she calleth; who will bid her come and welcome? Who will turn to her? who will speak for her? who will stand for her while she yet hath need?-Henry George.
IF a friend of mine... gav, a
feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. Buf if. a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted, so that I might share in what I was entitled to share. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation, as the most terrible mode for which disgrace could be inflicted on me. he who can look on the loveliness of the world and share its sorrow, and realize something of the wonder of both, is in immediate contact with divine things, and has got as near to God's secret as any one can get.-Oscar Wilde.
Time to me is so precious that with great difficulty can I steal one hour in eight days, either to satisfy myself or to gratify my friends.-John Knox.
HEY that love beyond the world can not be separated by it. Death can not kill what never dies.
Nor can spirits ever be divided, that love and live in the same divine principle, the root and record, of their friendship
Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. . .
This is the comfort of friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present because immortal.-William Penn.
Man can not degrade woman without himself falling into degradation; he can not elevate her without at the same time elevating himself.
However dull a woman may be, she will understand all there is in love; however intelligent a man may be, he will never know but half of it.-Madame Fée.
HAT Nature is always right, is an assertion, artistically, as untrue, as it is one whose truth is universally taken for granted. Nature is very rarely right, to such an extent even, that it might almost be said that Nature is usually wrong: that is to say, the condition of things that shall bring about the perfection of harmony worthy a picture is rare, and not common at all.
This would seem, to even the most intelligent, a doctrine almost blasphemous. So incorporated with our education has the supposed aphorism become, that its belief is held to be part of our moral being, and the words themselves have, in our ear, the ring of religion. Still, seldom does Nature succeed in producing a picture
How little this is understood, and how dutifully the casual in Nature is accepted as sublime, may be gathered from the unlimited admiration daily produced by a very foolish
working man and the cultured one, the wise man and the one of pleasure, cease to understand, as they have ceased to see, and Nature, who, for once, has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist alone, her son and her masterher son in that he loves her, her master in that he knows her.
In the dark womb where I began
Down in the darkness of the grave,
If the grave's gates could be undone,
What have I done to keep in mind
What have I done, or tried, or said
sunset. ¶ And when the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys become campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens, and fairy-land is before usthen the wayfarer hastens home; the
To him her secrets are unfolded, to him her lessons have become gradually clear.
Through his brain, as through the last alembic, is distilled the refined essence of that thought which began with the Gods, and which they left him to carry out. Set apart by them to complete their works, he produces that wondrous thing called the masterpiece, which surpasses in perfection all that they have contrived in what is called Nature; and the Gods stand by and marvel, and perceive how far away more beautiful is the Venus of Melos than was their own Eve.-Whistler.
ASSION is a sort of fever in the mind, which ever leaves us weaker than it found us. It, more than any thing, deprives us of the use of our judgment; for it raises a dust very hard to see through ..
It may not unfitly be termed the mob of the man, that commits a riot upon his reason.-William Penn.
A man is an animal that writes.—Homer.
E is fallen! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered. among us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted s Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality de
A mind, bold, independent, and decisive -a will, despotic in its dictates-an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character-the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell
Flung into life, in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interesthe acknowledged no criterion but success he worshiped no God but ambition, and with an Eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. Subsidiary to this, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate: in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross: the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; and with a paricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and the tribune, he reared the throne of despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the pope; a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country; and in the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Cæsars!
Through this pantomime of his policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was
novel, changed places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory-his flight from Egypt confirmed his destinyruin itself only elevated him to empire.
But if this fortune was great, his genius was transcendent; decision flashed upon his counsels; and it was the same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects, his combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable; but, in his hands, simplicity marked their development, and success vindicated their adoption.
His person partook the character of his mind-if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in the field.
Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount-space no opposition that he did not spurn; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity! The whole continent of Europe trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance assumed the air of history; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became common places in his contemplation; kings were his people -nations were his outposts; and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignitaries of the chessboard! Je
Amid all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether in the field or the drawing-room -with the mob or the levee-wearing the jacobin bonnet or the iron crownbanishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic he was still the same military despot! Cradled in the camp, he was to the last hour the darling of the army; and whether in the camp or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend or forgot a favor.
Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned him, till affection was useless; and their first stipulation was for the safety of their favorite I
They knew well, if he was lavish of them, he was prodigal of himself; and that if he exposed them to peril, he repaid them with plunder. For the soldier, he subsidized every people; to the people he made even pride pay tribute - The victorious veteran glittered with his gains; and the capital, gorgeous with the spoils of art, became the miniature metropolis of the universe. In this wonderful combination, his affectation of literature must not be omitted. The jailer of the Press, he affected the patronage of letters-the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy-the persecutor of authors, and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning!-the assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England s Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A Royalist-a Republican and an Emperor-a Mohammedan-a Catholic and a Patron of the Synagogue-a Subaltern and a Sovereign-a Traitor
and a Tyrant-a Christian and an Infidel -he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, inflexible original -the same mysterious, incomprehensible self-the man without a model, and without a shadow.
His fall, like his life, baffled all speculation. In short, his whole history was like a dream to the world, and no man can tell how or why he was awakened from the reverie.
I write. He sits beside my chair,
And scribbles, too, in hushed delight, He dips his pen, in charmed air:
What is it he pretends to write?
He toils and toils; the paper gives
The poems that he can not pen.
Such is a faint and feeble picture of Napoleon Bonaparte, the first (and it is to be hoped the last) emperor of the French. That he has done much evil there is little doubt; that he has been the
origin of much good there is just as little. Through his means, intentional or not, Spain, Portugal, and France
have arisen to the blessings of a free constitution; superstition has found her grave in the ruins of the Inquisition and the feudal system, with its whole train of tyrannic satellites, has fled forever s Kings may learn from him that their safest study, as
well as their noblest, is the interest of the people; the people are taught by him that there is no despotism, so stupendous against which they have not a resource; and to those who would rise upon the ruins of both, he is a living lesson, that if ambition can raise them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from the highest.-Charles Phillips.
Strange fancies throng that baby brain, What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!
He stops-reflects—and now again
It seems a satire on myself,—
Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind
Presists in hoping-schemes and strives That there may linger with our kind Some memory of our little lives.
Beneath his rock in the early world
Like him I strive in hope my rhymes
May keep my name a little whileO child, who knows how many times We two have made the angels smile! “A New Poet,” by William Canton