sufferings, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light of Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom? No, sir; increased gratification and delight, rather. I thank God, that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit, which would drag angels down.

3. When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit because it happens to spring up beyond the little limits of my Own state or neighborhood; when I refuse, for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the country; or if I see an uncommon endowment of Heaven, if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of the South, and if, moved by local prejudice or gangrened by state jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!

4. Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections, let me indulge in refreshing remembrances of the past; let me remind you that, in early times, no states cherished greater harmony, both of principle and feeling, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to God that harmony might again return! Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution, hand in hand they stood round the administration of Washington, and felt his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, if it exist,

alienation and distrust, are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never scattered.

5. Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is. Behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history; the world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the great struggle for Independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will lie forever.

6. And, sir, where American Liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion shall wound it; if party strife and blind ambition shall hawk at and tear it; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed in separating it from that Union by which alone. its existence is made sure, it will stand, in the end, by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was rocked; it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor it may still retain, over the friends who gather round it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amid the proudest monuments of its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin.

1 EU-LŌ'ĢI-UM. Praise; eulogy.

3 EV-DOW'MENT. Gift of nature; talent. CIR-CUM-SCRĪBED'. Enclosed; con- GAN'GRENED. Corrupted and morti

XCIII-EXTRACT FROM SNOW-BOUND.

WHITTIER.

1. UNWARMED by any sunset light,
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary 1 with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro,

Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow;
And ere the early bed-time came,
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

2. So all night long the storm roared on,
And when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below,-
A universe of sky and snow!

3. The old familiar sight of ours

Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,

Or garden wall, or belt of wood;

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,

A fenceless drift what once was road;

The bridle-post an old man sat,

With loose-flung coat and high-cocked hat;

The well-curb had a Chinese roof:
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.*

4. A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!"
Well pleased, (for when did farmer-boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins 2 on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through,
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.

5. We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within:
All day the gusty north wind bore.
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.

6. As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,

The Leaning Tower at Pisa (pēʼzä).

The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney back,—
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty fore-stick laid apart,

And filled between, with curious art,
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.

1 HOAR'Y. White.

2 BUS/KINŞ. A kind of half boots.

XCIV. AFTER MARRIAGE.

SHERIDAN.

[Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a celebrated orator and dramatic writer, was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1751, and died in 1816. His principal plays are "The Rivals," "The Duenna,' ," "The School for Scandal," and "The Critic." They are all marked by brilliant wit and pointed dialogue, and "The School for Scandal" is perhaps the most finished comedy in the language. He was a very effective speaker in Parliament. There was little that was estimable or respectable in Sheridan's character. He was always in a state of pecuniary embarrassment, and in his later years too often sought oblivion in that fatal source of alleviation, the bottle. The following scene is from "The School for Scandal."]

LADY TEAZLE and SIR PETER.

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

Lady Teazle. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or