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universe, is inconceivable. There is no ordinary operation of the physical elements, to which its mighty influence can be compared. We can find, only in the visions of the

apocalyptic saint, a parallel to its tremendous action. 5 Guided by truth and reason, like the sound of the seventh

trumpet, it opens the temple of God in heaven, and shows to the eye of the faithful and regenerated spirit, within the veil of that temple, in the presence-chamber of the

Almighty, the ark of his testament. Controlled by false10 hood and fraud, its force, like the opening of the sixth seal

of the mystic volume, produces earthquakes, turns the sun to sackcloth, and the moon to blood, moves every mountain and island out of their places, and causes even the

heaven we hope for, to depart as a scroll, when it is rolled 15 together.


There is a spot within a few miles of Boston, which is destined to be distinguished as a burying-place. “Sweet Auburn” was familiarly known as a place of favorite re

sort; its shady and intricate retreats, affording opportunity 5 for social or solitary rambles, and its botanic richness a

field for pastime and study. The place has been purchased by an Association, and consecrated as a cemetery, with the name of Mount Auburn.

Its distant appearance was formerly better than at pres10 ent, many of the trees now being removed. It looked like

a large mound rather than a hill, its central elevation being surrounded by deep glens and valleys, whose tree tops preserved a regular ascent, and reduced the otherwise

prominent height of the centre to the slope of a large 15 dome. It always seemed as though it were destined to some important and solemn use.

From the bridge across Charles river, in Cambridge, at sunset, when the horizontal light rayed into it, and the

glowing western sky showed in relief the quick motion of 20 the leaves in the fresh evening air, it has appeared like a

solemn and mournful place, enlivened, against its will, by the voices and joy of a multitude, and showing, as assumed its natural shades, that it was of a melancholy

and sorrowing spirit. 25 Now, its dense woods are thinned; and, from the com

mon road to the place, and, within a fraction of a mile, where the last house on the left leaves the view unbroken, you see a large white object, with a black centre, peering out from the side of a hill; the nature and object of which

a stranger is not at a loss to know, as the Egyptian Portal 5 of the grounds, appearing before him with its inscription,

“ Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return to God who gave it."

There has been a large number of avenues and paths laid through the place. The paths wind through romantic 10 recesses. It was with a peculiar sensation that we walked

through the place, when the avenues were first made. It was like viewing a great, but mournful conquest. Man had invaded a hitherto sacred and safe retreat; and the

axe and plough-share had let in the common sun. The 15 turf had just been removed from the ways, exposing a glebe made rich by the decay of a thousand autumns.

The robins were rejoicing over a strange supply of food. The sound of the workman's implements, from different

parts of the place, showed that "Sweet Auburn” was no 20 longer a safe retreat; and the sudden appearance of a

trench, with blocks of granite near, and other preparations for a tomb, made known the change that had taken place in the character of this beautiful retirement.


We know, that it is difficult to draw the line between good social dispositions and actions generally, and a sickly regard to false exactions; and to avoid useless discrimina

tions, we shall venture to say, that we dislike much of the 5 current language on the subject of pleasing. We dislike

the phrase, "trying to please." It is deceptive, and the practice itself leads to effeminacy or fraud. It puts men in wrong positions towards each other.

To shun giving needless offence is one thing, and most 10 important. This passive good-will or negative benevo

lence is not sustained without effort; and, as it is little noticed by those whom it spares, it is likely to be disinterested, and can scarcely do harm to either party,

Then, again, to give innocent pleasure to others by 15 active efforts and personal sacrifices in their behalf, is safe

for all concerned. And to gratify our friends by our moral excellence and high reputation, is a natural reward, though we should not propose it as the object, of virtuous action. And undoubtedly our customary civilities and attentions are in part designed to give pleasure.

But Chesterfield's “passionate desire of pleasing everybody," this endeavoring so to adapt ourselves to the dispo5 sitions of others, that admiration and gratitude shall beam

upon us whenever we appear, and our very persons become idols, is not the prompting or expression of benevolence ; and it is foreign to the true spirit and purpose of civility.

There is selfishness on both sides, and mutual mischief. 10 Men have no right to such a show of devotion, and we have no right to offer it.

We are not placed here, solely or chiefly, to please or to be pleased, even in the best sense that we can give to these

terms; but to be good and to do good. And, so far as 15 manners promote these objects, let them be cultivated with

enthusiasm, as virtues; and, so far as they then give pleasure, they yield a natural fruit




Gentlemen, it is time for me to bring my remarks to a close. I believe that I have left no point unurged, which may be presented to you in an aspect favorable to the pris

oner; and he now awaits your merciful consideration. 5 I presume that no advocate, in a capital cause, was ever

satisfied with his efforts, in his client's behalf; who did not feel, or fancy, on a sober re-consideration of his argument, that he might have done betier. I am prepared to be dis

turbed by this reflection hereafter; and, if so, I must draw 10 what comfort I can, fro:n that, I now feel,—that I have done what I could.

I have endeavored to argue this cause fairly. I am not conscious of having mis-stated the facts in evidence, or

laid down the law incorrectly; and if I have, I shall be 15 sure to hear of it, before the case is through. In such

cases, however, there is no great difference, between what can be accomplished by the highest or the humblest facul. ties. The prisoner is saved, if at all, by the law and facts;

and by these, and these alone, do I solicit my client's 20 acquittal. If I have failed, or been wanting, let them speak for me, and make


deficiencies. There is another class of considerations, in this case, which might be urged,-another class of emotions which

might be addressed in my client's behalf. In countries, where the passions have a more predominating sway, where the organization of man is more excitable, and his

blood more easily stirred, an advocate would not omit to 5 urge these considerations,--to appeal to these sensibilities.

I might speak to you of the gloom which an unfavorable verdict will spread among a large circle of friends and relatives, of the anguish of his heart-broken wife, of the

withering blight which will fall upon his innocent children, 10 of the deep, unmoving shadow which will settle upon his once cheerful hearth.

But that stern fibre, which the mind and character derives from our northern skies, rebukes such attempts, and

ensures their failure, if made. Such chords, if skilfully 15 struck, will tremble and vibrate for a moment, but will not

draw the judgment from its place. Justice is deaf, passionless, inexorable. Upon the guilty head, the great axe must fall, no matter what chords of love it severs in its sweep.

But, of these considerations, I may make a legitimate 20 use. From them I may deepen the earnestness, with which

I adjure you to deal with this case wisely, soberly, conscientiously, with the best faculties of your minds, and the brightest effluence of your moral sense. Judge it merci

fully, as you would be judged, when the verdict is to pass 25 upon your lives. Give to the prisoner all that you can,

not inconsistent with the claims of truth, not repugnant to the solemn sanctions of your

oath. By all that makes life sweet to you, take not his away lightly. By that good name which is the immediate jewel 30 of your souls, by the tranquil satisfaction of regular and

successful industry, by the sustaining sympathy of your friends, by the sunshine that beams from old familiar faces, by the sweet charities of domestic life, by the kisses of

your children, which perhaps are warm upon your lips, 35 close not the gates of mercy against your brother man,

unless driven by that awful voice of duty, before which all earthly considerations must ever give way.


The greatness of the genius of Aristophanes, is not generally appreciated. The value of his comedies, as illustrations of the political antiquities, the life, morals, and manners of Athens, is not fully understood. The truth is, we are indebted to him for information upon the working of the Attic institutions, which, had all his plays been lost, we should have vainly sought for in the works of other

authors. With what boldness and vigor does he sketch 5 that many-headed despot, the Demos of Athens; with

what austere truth, does he draw the character of the Athenian Demagogue, and, in him, the Demagogue of all times; how many rays of light are poured from his com

edies, upon the popular and judicial tribunals,—the assem10 blies in the Pnyx, the Senate, and the Heliastic courts !

No intelligent reader can doubt, that Aristophanes was a man of the most profound acquaintance with the political institutions of his age; no reader of poetic fancy can

fail to see that he possessed an extraordinary creative 15 genius. It is impossible to study his works attentively,

without feeling that his was the master mind of the Attic drama. The brightest flashes of a high poetical spirit, are constantly breaking out, from the midst of the broadest

merriment, and the sharpest satire. An imagination of 20 endless variety and strength, enlivens those lyrical passages

which gem his works, and are among the most precious brilliants of the Greek language. In the drawing of characters, his plays exhibit consummate skill. The clearness

of his conceptions, the precision of his outlines, the con25 sistency with which his personages are throughout main

tained, cannot fail to impress the reader, with the perfection of his judgment, and the masterly management of the resources of his art.

He had the inestimable advantage, too, of writing in a 30 language which is undoubtedly the highest attainment of

human speech; and all the rich varieties and harmonies of this wondrous instrument, he held at his supreme command. Its flexibility, under his shaping hand, is almost

miraculous. At one mornent, he is revelling in the wildest 35 mirth, and the next, he is sweeping through the loftiest

region of lyrical inspiration ; but the language never breaks down under his adventurous fiight. The very words he wants, come, like beings instinct with life, and fall into

their proper places, at his bidding. His wit is as manifold 40 and startling, as the myriad-minded Shakspeare's. Indeed,

although these great men stood two thousand years apart, and moved in widely differing spheres of poetical activity, still many striking points of resemblance exist between the genius of the English, and of the Grecian bard.

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