reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be
free,--if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for
which we have been so long contending,--if we mean not basely to abandon
the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have
pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of or contest
shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An
appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us!
XXXI.
THE SAME CONCLUDED.
They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an
adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the
next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed; and when a British
guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by
irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual
resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom
of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot?
Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God
of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the
holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are
invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir,
we shall not fight alone. There is a just God who presides over the
destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles
for us.
The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone,--it is to the active, the
vigilant, the brave. Besides sir we have no election! If we were base
enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There
is no retreat,--but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged.
Their clanking may be heard in the plains of Boston. The war is
inevitable,--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace!
peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale
that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding
arms! Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here idle? What
is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace
so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it,
Heaven!--I know not what course others may take, but as for me,--give me
liberty, or give me death!
XXXII.
REPLY TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON.
My Lords, I am amazed; yes, my Lords, I am amazed at his Grace's speech.
The noble Duke cannot look before him, behind him, or on either side of
him, without seeing some noble peer who owes his seat in this House to his
successful exertion in the profession to which I belong. Does he not feel
that it is as honorable to owe it to these, as to being the accident of an
accident? To all these noble Lords, the language of the noble Duke is as
applicable and insulting as it is to myself But I do not fear to meet it
single and alone. No one venerates the peerage more than I do; but, my
Lords, I must say, that the peerage solicited me, not I the peerage.
Nay, more; I can say and will say that as a Peer of Parliament, as a
Speaker of this right honorable House, as Keeper of the Great Seal, as
Guardian of his Majesty's conscience, as Lord High Chancellor of
England,-nay, even in that character alone, in which the noble Duke would
think it an affront to be considered but which character none can deny
me,--as a MAN,--I am, at this moment, as respectable,--I beg to leave add,
I am as much respected,--as the proudest peer I now look down upon.
Lord Thurlow.
XXXIII.
THE PROSPECTS OF CALIFORNIA.
Judging from the past, what have we not a right to expect in the future.
The world has never witnessed anything equal or similar to our career
hitherto. Scarcely two years ago California was almost an unoccupied wild.
With the exception of a præsidium, a mission a pueblo, or a lonely ranch,
scattered here and there, at tiresome distances, there was nothing to show
that the uniform stillness had ever been broken by the footsteps of
civilized man. The agricultural richness of her valley remained unimproved;
and the wealth of a world lay entombed in the bosom of her solitary
mountains, and on the banks of her unexplored streams. Behold the contrast!
The hand of agriculture is now busy in every fertile valley and its toils
are remunerated with rewards which in no other portion of the world can be
credited. Enterprise has pierced every hill, for hidden treasure, and has
heaped up enormous gains. Cities and villages dot the surface of the whole
State. Steamers dart along our rivers, and innumerable vessels spread their
white wings over our bays. Not Constantinople, upon which the wealth of
imperial Rome was lavished,--not St. Petersburg, to found which the
arbitrary Czar sacrificed thousands of his subjects, would rival, in
rapidity of growth, the fair city which lies before me. Our state is a
marvel to ourselves, and a miracle to the rest of the world. Nor is the
influence of California confined within her own borders. Mexico, and the
islands nestled in the embrace of the Pacific, have felt the quickening
breath of her enterprise. With her golden wand, she has touched the
prostrate corpse of South American industry, and it has sprung up in the
freshness of life. She has caused the hum of busy life to be heard in the
wilderness "where rolls the Oregon," and but recently heard no sound,
"save its own dashings." Even the wall of Chinese exclusiveness has been
broken down, and the children of the sun have come forth to view the
splendor of her achievements.
But, flattering as has been the past, satisfactory as is the present, it is
but a foretaste of the future. It is a trite saying, that we live in an age
of great events. Nothing can be more true. But the greatest of all events
of the present age is at hand. It needs not the gift of prophecy to
predict, that the course of the world's trade is destined soon to be
changed. But a few years can elapse before the commerce of Asia and the
islands of the Pacific, instead of pursuing the ocean track, by way of Cape
Horn or the Cape of Good Hope, or even taking the shorter route of the
Isthmus of Darien, or the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, will enter the Golden
Gate of California, and deposit its riches in our own city. Hence, on bars
of iron, and propelled by steam, it will ascend the mountains and traverse
the desert; and having again reached the confines of civilization, will be
distributed, through a thousand channels, to every portion of the Union and
of Europe. New York will then become what London now is,-the great central
point of exchange, the heart of trade, the force of whose contraction and
expansion will be felt throughout every artery of the commercial world; and
San Francisco will then stand the second city of America. Is this
visionary? Twenty years will determine.
The world is interested in our success; for a fresh field is opened to its
commerce, and a new avenue to the civilization and progress of the human
race. Let us, then, endeavor to realize the hopes of Americans, and the
expectations of the world. Let us not only be united amongst ourselves, for
our own local welfare, but let us strive to cement the common bonds of
brother-hood of the whole Union. In our relations to the Federal
Government, let us know no South, no North, no East, no West. Wherever
American liberty flourishes, let that be our common country! Wherever the
American banner waves, let that be our home!
Nathaniel Bennett.
XXXIV.
IN PROSPECT OF WAR
Go forth, defenders of your country, accompanied with every auspicious
omen; advance with alacrity into the field, when God himself musters the
hosts to war. Religion is too much interested in your success not to lend
you her aid. She will shed over your enterprise her selectest influence.
While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet, many to
the sanctuary; the faithful of every name will employ that prayer which has
power with God; the feeble hands which are unequal to any other weapon,
will grasp the sword of the Spirit; and from myriad of humble, contrite
hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle,
in its ascent to heaven, with the shouts of battle and the shock of arms.
While you have everything to fear from the success of the enemy, you have
every means of preventing that success; so that it is next to impossible
for victory not to crown your exertions The extent of your resources, under
God, is equal to the justice of your cause. But, should Providence
determine otherwise,--should you fall in this struggle, should the nation
fall,--you will have the satisfaction (the purest allotted to man), of
having performed your part; your names will be enrolled with the most
illustrious dead, while posterity, to the end of time, as often as they
revolve the events of this period (and they will incessantly revolve them),
will turn to you a reverential eye, while they mourn over the freedom which
is entombed in your sepulchre.
I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legislators, and patriots of
every age and country, are bending from their elevated seats to witness
this contest, as if they were incapable, till it be brought to a favorable
issue, of enjoying their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious
immortals! Your mantle fell when you ascended; and thousands, inflamed with
your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by
Him that sitteth on the throne, and liveth forever and ever, that they will
protect freedom in her last asylum, and never desert her cause, which you
sustained by your labors, and cemented with your blood!
Robert Hall.
XXXV.
THE AMERICAN INDIANS.
If the Indians had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They
were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave
not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was
terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their
love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are
they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth? The sachems and the
tribes? The hunters and their families? They have perished. They are
consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work.
No,--nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker,
which hath eaten into their heart-cores,--a plague which the touch of the
white man communicated,--a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering
ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may now
call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing
for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable
homes,--the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, "few and
faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The
smoke no longed curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow,
unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or dispatch;
but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted
villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers They
shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There is
something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their
looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles
both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage
absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward.
They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,--no,
never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassible gulf. They know
and feel, that for them there is still one remove farther, not distant, nor
unseen. It is the general burying-ground of their race.
J. Story.
XXXVI.
CLASSICAL LEARNING.
The importance of classical learning to professional education is so
obvious, that the surprise is, that it could ever have become matter of
disputation. I speak not of its power in reining the taste, in disciplining
the judgment, in invigorating the understanding, or in warming the heart
with elevated sentiments; but of its power of direct, positive, necessary
instruction. There is not a single nation from the north to the south of
Europe, from the bleak shores of the Baltic to the bright plains of
immortal Italy, whose literature is not embedded in the very elements of
classical learning. The literature of England is, in an emphatic sense, the
production of her scholars; of men who have cultivated letters in her
universities, and colleges, and grammar-schools; of men who thought any
life too short, chiefly because it left some relic of antiquity unmastered,
and any other fame too humble, because it faded in the presence of Roman
and Grecian genius.
He who studies English literature without the lights of classical
learning, loses half the charms of its sentiments and style, of its force
and feelings, of its delicate touches, of its delightful allusions, of its
illustrative associations. Who that reads the poetry of Gray, does not feel
that it is the refinement of classical taste which gives such inexpressible
vividness and transparency to his diction? Who that reads the concentrated
sense and melodious versification of Dryden and Pope, does not perceive in
them the disciples of the old school, whose genius was inflamed by the
heroic verse, the terse satire, and the playful wit of antiquity? Who that
meditates over the strains of Milton does not feel that he drank deep at
"Siloa's brook, that flowed
Fast by the oracle of God,--"
that the fires of his magnificent mind were lighted by coals from ancient
altars?
It is no exaggeration to declare, that he who proposes to abolish classical
studies, proposes to render, in a great measure, inert and unedifying, the
mass of English literature for three centuries; to rob us of the glory of
the past, and much of the instruction of future ages; to blind us to
excellencies which few may hope to equal, and none to surpass; to
annihilate associations which are interwoven with our best sentiments, and
give to distant times and countries a presence and reality, as if they were
in fact his own.
J. Story.
XXXVII.
AN APPEAL IN BEHALF OF PATRIOTISM AND LOYALTY.
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 object 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, mothers, by that which never fails in woman,--the love of
your offspring,--teach them as they climb your knees, or lean on your
bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their
baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake
her.
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 gray
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 poetry exclaim that here is still his
country.
J. Story.
XXXVIII.
OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC.
The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the
beginning and end of all its own marvelous struggles in the cause of
liberty. Greece, lovely Greece,
"The land of scholars and the nurse of arms,"
where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty
and the gods,--where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor
has ground 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 ruins. She
fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylæ
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 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. The malaria has travelled in the paths
worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the
loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had
crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep
probings of the senate-chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns,--the
swarms of the North,--completed only what was already begun at home. Romans
betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold; but the people offered the
tribute-money.
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 vigor 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 to 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 have themselves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our
institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of
both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and
warmed the sunny plains of France and the lowlands of Holland. It has
touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the
South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that
America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she
is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose
ruins is: THEY WERE, BUT THEY ARE NOT? Forbid it, my countrymen! Forbid it,
Heaven!
J. Story.
XXXIX.
SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS.
It had been a day of triumph at Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious
eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an
extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry
had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had
retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were
extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the
dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters
of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when
the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow
reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary
wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then all
was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.
In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were crowded
together, their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam
upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,
when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed
them:--
"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long
years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad
empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if
there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private
brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If
there, be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let
them come on!
"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men.
My father was a reverent man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought the
rural deities his offerings of fruits ad flowers. He dwelt among the
vine-clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran
quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to
tend the flock; and then, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade,
and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our
neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our
rustic meal.
"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath
the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling
of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of
Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not
then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why; and I
clasped the hand of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair
from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and
think no more of those old tales and savage wars.
"That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the dash of steel was
heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me
trampled by the iron hoof of the warhorse; the bleeding body of my father
flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in
the arena, and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold!--it was my friend!
He knew me,--smiled faintly,--gasped,--and died. The same sweet smile that
I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some
lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish
triumph. I told the Prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged
his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral-pile, and mourn over him.
Ay, upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that
boon, while all the Roman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins they
call vestal, and the rabble, shouted in mockery, deeming it rare sport,
forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale, and tremble like a
very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but the Prætor drew back as
if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no
noble men but Romans!' And he, deprived of funeral rites,--must wander, a
hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look--and
look--and look in vain to the bright Elysian fields where dwell his
ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you, and so must I, die like dogs!
"O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me! Ay, thou hast given to
that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher sound than
a flute-note, muscles of iron, and a heart of flint; taught him to drive
the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and warm it in the marrow
of his foe!--to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion,
even as a smooth-cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee
back till thy yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze
thy life-blood lies curdled!