costly ornaments of patrician luxury'; the scattered Tyrian couches; the scarlet canopy that covered the whole range of the tables, and gave the hall the aspect of an imperial pavilion partially torn down in the confusion of the flight', all assumed to me a horrid and bewildered splendor. The smokes were already rising through the crevices of the floor; the smell of flame was on my robes'; a huge volume of yellow vapor slowly wreathed and arched round the chair at the head of the banquet. I could have imagined a fearful lord of the feast under that cloudy veil! Every thing round me was marked with preternatural fear', magnificencé, and ruin. 66 A low groan broke my reverie. I heard the voice of one in despair. I heard the broken words', Oh, bitter fruit of disobedience'!-Oh', my mother', shall I never see your face again'?—For one crime I am doomed'.—Eternal mercy', let my crime be washed away-let my spirit ascend purè.-Farewell`, mother', sister', father', husband'." With the last word I heard a fall', as if the spirit had left the body. I sprang towards the sound': I met but the solid wall'. "Horrible illusion'," I cried`,-" am I mad', or the victim of the powers of darkness?" I tore away the hangings'-a door was before mè. I burst it through with a blow of the axé, and saw stretched on the floor, and insensiblé—Salomę ! I caught my child in my arms; I bathed her forehead with my tears; I besought her to look up', to give some sign of life, to hear the full forgiveness of my breaking heart. She looked not`, answered not, breathed not'. To make a last effort for her life, I carried her into the banquet-room. But the fire had forced its way there; the wind, bursting in', had carried the flame through the long galleries'; and flashes and spires of lurid light', already darting through the doors', gave fearful evidence that the last stone of the palace must soon go down. I bore my unhappy daughter towards the window'; but the height was deadly'; no gesture could be seen through the piles of smoké; the help of man was in vain'. To my increased misery', the current of air revived Salome at the instant when I hoped that', by insensibility', she would escape the final pang. She breathed', stood, and, opening her eyes', fixed on me the vacant stare of one scarcely aroused from sleep. Still clasped in my arms', she gazed again; but my wild face covered with dust', my half-burnt hair', the axe gleaming in my hand', terrified her; she uttered a scream`, and darted away from me headlong into the center of the burning. I rushed after her', calling on her name. A column of fire shot up between us'; I felt the floor sink'; all wās thēn sūffōcation—I struggled', and fell'.— LESSON XCIV. EXTRACT FROM WEBSTER'S SPEECH ON THE TRIAL OF J. F. KNAPP. AGAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery', and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium', how much soever it may bé, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning', or a hand' in executing' this deed of midnight assassination', may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. Gentlemen', it is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere; certainly none in our New England' history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any lion-like temptation upon their virtué, overcoming it before resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or satiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, mōney-making murder. It was all "hīre and sālārī, not revengè." It was the weighing of money' against lifé; the counting out of so many pieces of silver`, against so many ounces of blood". An āgēd mān, without an enemy in the world', in his own hōuse, and in his own bēd, is made the victim of butcherly murder' for merè pay'. Truly', here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder', if he will show it as it has been exhibited in an examplé, where such example was last to have been looked for', in the very bosom of our New England society', let him not give it the grim visage of Moloch', the brow knitted by revenge^, the face black with settled hāte^, and the blood-shot eye emitting livid fires of malice';-let him draw', rather, a deco'rous', smooth-faced', bloodless' demon'; a picture in repôse, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature in its depravity', and in its paroxysms of crîme, as an infernal' nature,—a fiend' in the ordinary' display and development of his character. The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and WEBSTER'S SPEECH ON THE TRIAL OF J. F. KNAPP. 279 steadiness', equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly in evidencé, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim', and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet-the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft' but strong embrace. The assassin enters', through the window already prepared', into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall', half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs', and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock', by soft and continued pressuré, till it turns on its hinges`; and he enters', and beholds' his victim before him. The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was tūrnēd from the murderer', and the beams of the moon', resting on the gray locks of his aged templé, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given'!—and the victim passes', without a struggle or a motion', from the repose of sleep' to the repose of death'! It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger', though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even räisēs, the aged arm', that he may not fail in his aim at the heart'; and replaces it again' over the wounds of the poniard! To finish the picture', he explores the wrist for the pulsè! he feels it', and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished'. The deed is done. He retreats', retraces his steps to the window', passes out through it as he came in', and escapes. He has done the murder-no eye has seen him`, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own', and it is safe! Ah! gentlemen', that was a dreadful mistake'. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God' has neither nook' nor corner', where the guilty can bestow it', and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises', and beholds every thing, as in the splendor of noon',—such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection', even by men. True it is, generally speaking', that "murder will out'." True it is', that Providence hath so ordained', and doth so govern things', that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood', seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially', in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come', and will come', sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man', every thing, every circumstance', connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scené, shedding all their light', and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors' under its guilty possession', and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it does not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it', and it can ask no sympathy or assistancé, either from heaven' or earth. The secret which the murderer' possesses' soon comes to possess him'; and, like the evil spirits of which we read', it overcomes him', and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat^, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face', reads it in his eyes', and almost hears its workings' in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage', it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him', and the net of circumstances to entangle him', the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed', it will be confessed, there is no refuge from confession', but suicidé, and suicide', is confession'. LESSON XCV. ODE FOR THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 1. BLOW ye the trumpet', blow The year of Jubilee has come, 2. In Zion's sacred gates' We'll raise our cheerful songs`; With thankful hearts let us declaré How wondrous all his mercies are`. 3. Arise', O mighty God', And through the world make known' And shall prevail', where'er the sun' 4. BLOW YE THE TRUMPET, BLOW', (Praise to the Lord',) when there shall bé LESSON XCVI. WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL. Trochaic. Three feet and four, with an additional long 1. Stand'! the GROUND'S YOUR OWN, MY BRAVES', WILL YE LOOK FOR GREENER GRAVES'? HOPE YE MERCY STILL' ? 2. Fear ye foes who kill for hiré ? And, before you, see` : Who have dône it'!-From the valé On they come!—and will ye quail^ ?— Let their welcome be'! 3. In the God of battles trust'! Die we may-and die we must`.- |