And the fierce rains were heard: and here and there Ces. Oh! no more. Pri. Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house, Above you, how this aged wretch would look. And death's own marble smile that changes not : Pri. Why, you seem frightened. No, sir-no. 'Tis a fearful picture. Pri. Yet might it have been true. Ces. Pri. We'll hope not. That hope is past. How will the Spaniard look, Think you, Cesario, when the question comes upon him. Yes; More pale than you do now. Cesario! The eye of God has been Ces. I hope Pri. Beware. Hope! Ces. Pri. My lord! Beware how you Curse him, for he is loaded heavily. Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world Will stamp its malediction on his head, And God and man disown him. Oh! no more. Ces. Pri. Your wic' and the gods; where, and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery; the fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. She fell not, when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopyla and Marathon; and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of her destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun, where, and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. And where are the republics of modern times, which clustered round immortal Italy? Venice and Genoa exist but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses; but the guaranty of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the vallies are not easily retained. We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigour of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve what they themselves have created? Can it be, that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? That she is to be added to that catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is, "They were, but they are not." Forbid it, my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven. I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are, and all you hope to be; resist every project of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction. I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country. I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your grey hairs go down in sorrow to the grave with the recollection, that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves. No I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he, who at the distance of another century shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth, as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country, 66 Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toils; serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms." SECTION LXX. DR. JOHNSON-RICHARD SAVAGE.....Blackwood's Magazine. Savage. MR. JOHNSON, I must insist upon your going home to your lodgings. Johnson. No, sir; I had as lief walk with you, and chat with you. Sav. Your complaisance carries you too far. Necessity has accustomed me to pass the night in this manner. But you have a lodging, and need not encounter these hardships. Johns. A man, sir, takes a pleasure in tasting the diversities of life, when he knows it is his option whether he shall do so or not. Sav. Your frame is robust. You will catch no harm, at any rate, from your present whim. Johns. Why, sir, I love occasionally to aberrate from routine. It awakens and varies my ideas. The streets are almost silent just now. These large and opaque masses of building have nothing in their exterior to set the mind a-going; but they affect us, sir, because we know them to be pregnant with the workings of the human heart, from the cellar to the garret. There is no time when mankind so distinctly feel their happiness or misery, as before retiring to sleep. Action being then suspended, they have time to estimate its results, and to calculate what remains to be enjoyed or suffered. Sav. I have some verses in my pocket which I composed this morning, and wrote on the back of a play-bill with a pen which I procured in a grocer's shop. If these lamps were not so dim, you should hear them read. Johns. The ancients said of love, that he had been cradled on rocks, and suckled by tigers. Sav. What of that? Johns. It is astonishing under what unfavourable circumstances poetical enthusiasm, which is one of the finest movements of the soul, will sometimes thrive and fructify. I do not much wonder at Cervantes having written Don Quixote in prison; for it would appear that the assembling of humorous conceptions is a harsh and hardy operation of the mind, and not liable to interruption from slight inconveniences. We find humour among men, whom the rigours of their situation have entirely blunted to tenderness. Take, for instance, sailors and highwaymen. Sav. What do you suppose to be the hardiest of all faculties. Johns. That of ratiocination, sir. But it requires to be supported. When I lived, as at one time I was obliged to do, upon four pence a day, I experienced frequent defalcation of mental activity. Sav. Starvation may enfeeble the faculties, but in me it leaves the passions as active as ever. It leaves me still the same proud and uncontrollable Richard Savage. Johns. Nature has probably ordered things in such a manner, that our personal energies shall be the last to suffer from bodily exhaustion. After dinner, sir, I generally feel inclined to meditation. Reading is then less agreeable to me, because of the trouble of holding the book to my eyes. Sav. When do you dine? Johns. Generally at three. Sav. Heigho! you are a happy man. do credit to literature, when poor Savage You will one day Johns. Nay, sir, do not speak thus. I am but a harmless drudge, a word-hunter-little worthy of being envied. He that deludes his imagination with golden dreams of the dignity of literature, need only enter the garret of the lexicographer, and see him at his diurnal task, to be convinced that learning is honoured only in its results, and not in the person of the possessor. Sav. Have you visited my Lord Chesterfield lately? Johns. Why, no, sir. I found that I was kept waiting for hours in the anti-chamber, while his lordship was engaged with such persons as Cibber. Sav. Stupid scoundrel! Fellows like that get on well wherever they go. Johns. And what if they do, sir? They are more gainly, sir, than we, because they are meaner. The man who approaches people like Chesterfield must not have any humours of his own. Now, sir, I am not one of those who can clear their foreheads, and look pleasant whenever occa sion requires. I love to be as sour as I please. Mea virtute me involvo. Sav. But surely Lord Chesterfield ought to make some distinction between Johns. Chesterfield, I believe, does as we ourselves would do in his situation. He knows what it is to be a courtier, and he expects to be courted in his turn, for whatever he has to give. Sav. Learning and worth ought Johns. Nay, sir, do not talk stuff. Learning and worth may pace the streets, and reflect on their own merits till they are weary, but the world has other matters to think of, Personal qualities do not rise in society, unless their pos sessor has the art of making them subservient to the want of others. A man who appears at vanity fair, with a species of merchandise which every person can do without, will only be laughed at, if he gives himself airs, |