DEATH OF J. Q. ADAMS. 37 which they have modestly confessed they do not possess in the same degree as their predecessors. I will answer them in the words of the father of that son, "You ask definite pledges-I give definite pledges tremblingly." But, sir, the phaeton is at the door, ambition burns to mount. Whether the Mississippi, like the Po, is to suffer a metamorphosis, not in its poplars-whether the blacks shall be turned into whites, or the whites into blacks, the slaves into masters, or the masters into slaves, or the murdered and their murderers to change color, like the mulberry-trees, belongs to men of greater sagacity than I am, to foretell. I am content to act the part of Cassandra, to lift up my voice, whether it be heeded, or heard only to be disregarded, until too late-I will cry out obsta principiis. Yes, sir, in this case, as in many others the first step is all the difficulty-that taken, then they may take for their motto-" there is no retreat." I tell these gentlemen there is no retreat—it is cut off-there is no retreat, even as tedious and painful as that conducted by Xenophon. There is no Anabasis for us-and if there was, where is our Xenophon? I do not feel lightly on this occasion-far otherwise-but the heaviest heart often vents itself in light expressions. There is a mirth of sadness, as well as tears of joy. If I could talk lightly on this sad subject, I would remind gentlemen of the reply given by a wiseacre, who was sent to search the vaults of the Parliament House at the time of the gunpowder plot, and who had searched and reported that they had found fifty barrels of powder concealed under the fagots and other fuel--that he had removed twenty-five, and hoped that the other twenty-five would do no harm. The step you are about to take is the match of that powder-whether it be twenty-five or fifty barrels is quite immaterial—it is enough to blow-not the first of the Stuarts-but the last of another dynasty-sky-high-skyhigh. XXII-DEATH OF J. Q. ADAMS. WILLIAM H. SEWARD. THE Thirtieth Congress assembles in this conjuncture, and the debates are solemn, earnest and bewildering. Steam and lightning, which have become docile messengers, make the American people listeners to this high debate, and anxiety and interest, intense and universal, absorb them all. Suddenly the council is dissolved. Silence is in the capitol, and sorrow has thrown its pall over the land. What new event is this? Has some Cromwell closed the legislative chambers? or has some Cæsar, returning from his distant conquests, passed the Rubicon, seized the purple, and fallen in the Senate beneath the swords of self-appointed executioners of his country's vengeance? No! Nothing of all this. What means, then, this abrupt and fearful silence? What unlooked-for calamity has quelled the debates of the Senate, and calmed the excitement of the people? An old man, whose tongue once indeed was eloquent, but now through age had well nigh lost its cunning, has fallen into the swoon of death. He was not an actor in the drama of conquest-nor had his feeble voice yet mingled in the lofty argument "A -In the very act of rising to debate he fell into the arms of conscript fathers of the republic. A long lethargy supervened and oppressed his senses. Nature rallied the wasting powers, on the verge of the grave, for a very brief space. But it was long enough for him. The re-kindled eye showed that the re-collected mind was clear, calm and vigorous. His weeping family, and his sorrowing compeers were there. He surveyed the scene, and knew at once its fatal import. He had left no duty unperformed; he had no wish unsatisfied; no ambition unattained; no regret, no sorrow, no fear, He could not shake off the dews of death that no remorse. gathered on his brow. He could not pierce the thick shades that rose up before him. But he knew that eternity lay close by the shores of time. He knew that his Redeerner lived. Eloquence, even in that hour, inspired him with his ancient sublimity of utterance. THIS," said the dying man, THIS IS THE END OF EARTH. He paused for a moment, and then added, "I AM CONTENT." Angels might well draw aside the curtains of the skies to look down on such a scene-a scene that approximated even to that scene of unapproachable sublimity, not to be recalled without reverence, when in mortal agony, ONE who spake as never man spake, said, "IT IS FINISHED.' DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 39 XXIII.-DEATH OF NAPOLEON. WILLIAM H. SEWARD. on its He was an emperor. But he saw around him a mother, brothers and sisters, not ennobled; whose humble state reminded him and the world, that he was born a plebeian; and he had no heir to wait for the imperial crown. He scourged the earth again, and again fortune smiled on him even in his wild extravagance. He bestowed kingdoms and principalities upon his kindred-put away the devoted wife of his youthful days, and another, a daughter of Hapsburgh's imperial house, joyfully accepted his proud alliance. Offspring gladdened his anxious sight; a diadem was placed infant brow, and it received the homage of princes, even in its cradle. Now he was indeed a monarch-a legitimate monarch—a monarch by divine appointment-the first of an endless succession of monarchs. But there were other monarchs who held sway in the earth. He was not content, he would reign with his kindred alone. He gathered new and greater armies, from his own land-from subjugated lands. He called forth the young and brave-one from every household-from the Pyrenees to the Zuyder-Zee-from Jura to the ocean. He marshalled them into long and majestic columns, and went forth to seize that universal dominion, which seemed almost within his grasp. But ambition had tempted fortune too far. The nations of the earth resisted, repelled, pursued, surrounded him. The pageant was ended. The crown fell from his presumptuous head. The wife who had wedded him in his pride forsook him when the hour of fear came upon him. His child was ravished from his sight. His kinsmen were degraded to their first estate, and he was no longer emperor, nor consul, nor general, nor even a citizen, but an exile and a prisoner, on a lonely island, in the midst of the wild Atlantic. Discontent attended him here. The wayward man fretted out a few long years of his yet unbroken manhood, looking off at the earliest dawn and in evening's latest twilight, toward that distant world that had only just eluded his grasp. His heart corroded. Death came, not unlooked for, though it came even then unwelcome. He was stretched on his bed within the fort which constituted his prison. A few fast and faithful friends stood around, with the guards who rejoiced that the hour of relief from long and He was wearisome watching, was at hand. As his strength wasted away, delirium stirred up the brain from its long and inglorious inactivity. The pageant of ambition returned. again a lieutenant, a general, a consul, an emperor of France. He filled again the throne of Charlemagne. His kindred pressed around him, again invested with the pompous pageantry of royalty. The daughter of the long line of kings again stood proudly by his side, and the sunny face of his child shone out from beneath the diadem that encircled its flowing locks. The marshals of Europe awaited his command. The legions of the old guard were in the field, their scarred faces rejuvenated, and their ranks, thinned in many battles, replenished. Russia, Prussia, Denmark and England, gathered their mighty hosts to give him battle. Once more he mounted his impatient charger, and rushed forth to conquest. He waved his sword aloft and cried “TETE D'ARMEE.” The feverish vision broke-the mockery was ended. The silver cord was loosened, and the warrior fell back upon his bed a lifeless corpse. THIS was the END OF EARTH. THE CORSICAN WAS NOT CONTENT. XXIV.-WHO IS BLANNERHASSETT? WILLIAM WIRT. Who is Blannerhassett? A native of Ireland, a man of letters, who fled from the storms of his own country to find quiet in ours. His history shows that war is not the natural element of his mind. If it had been, he never would have exchanged Ireland for America. So far is an army from furnishing the society natural and proper to Mr. Blannerhassett's character, that on his arrival in America, he retired even from the population of the Atlantic States, and sought. quiet and solitude in the bosom of our western forests. he carried with him taste, and science, and wealth; and lo, the desert smiled! Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates it with every romantic embellishment of fancy. A shrubbery that Shenstone might have envied, blooms around him. Music, that might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs, is his. An extensive library spreads its treasures before him. But A WHO IS BLANNERHASSETT? 41 philosophical apparatus offers to him all the secret mysteries of nature. Peace, tranquillity, and innocence shed their mingled delights around him. And to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment that can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love and made him the father of several children. The evidence would convince you that this is but a faint picture of tho real life. In the midst of all this peace, this innocent simplicity, and this tranquillity, this feast of mind, this pure banquet of the heart, the destroyer comes; he comes to change this paradise into a hell. Yet the flowers do not wither at his approach. No monitory shuddering through the bosom of their unfortunate possessor warns him of the ruin that is coming upon him. A stranger presents himself. Introduced to their civilities by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon finds his way into their hearts by the dignity and elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his conversation, and the seductive and fascinating power of his address. The conquest was not difficult. Innocence is ever simple and credulous. Conscious of no design itself, it suspects none in others. It wears no guard before its breast. Every door and portal and every avenue of the heart is open, and all who choose it enter. Such was the state of Eden when the serpent entered its bowers. The prisoner, in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open and unpractised heart of the unfortunate Blannerhas sett, found but little difficulty in changing the native character of that heart and the object of its affections. By degrees he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. breathes into it the fire of his own courage; a daring and desperate thirst for glory; an ardor panting for great enterprises, for all the storm and bustle and hurricane of life. In a short time the whole man is changed, and every object of his former delight is relinquished. No more he enjoys the tranquil scene; it has become flat and insipid, to his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and crucible are thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes its fragrance upon the air in vain; he likes it not. His ear no longer drinks the rich melody of music; it longs for the trumpet's clangor and the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, no longer affects him; and the angel smile of his wife, which hitherto touched his bosom with an ecstacy so He |