perate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' pas13 sage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth: weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned: depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board: drinking nothing but water on shore; without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any princi14 ple of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science! in how 15 many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician! how long did the shadow of a colony, on 16 which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history! compare for me the 17 baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children, was it hard labor and spare meals, was it disease, was it the tomahawk, was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a 18 ruined enterprise and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea, was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, 19 so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious? Everett. Sentence 6th.-A compound declarative double compact, with the first proposition, consisting of a series of members, and the third, comprising a compound declarative perfect loose. No is here somewhat singular in having its equivalent in the member which follows, while it is itself the equivalent of all that precede. (See Classif., Double Compact, 7, General Note, and Rule VIII. 3.) Sentence 13th. The third member should be treated as a single compact, third form, and of course delivered with the bend at board. Sentences 15th, 16th.-Semiinterrogative. The two parts of each relatively form a loose sentence. Sentence 18th.-O serve the delivery of the successive members in the first part of this interrogative. (See Rule X.) 1 SEC. XVII. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. Sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every 2 other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 8 to lament? who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept consolation that was to be bought by forgetfulness? 4 No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed. 5 into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we mest loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a 6 passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No; 7 there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song: there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms 8 of the living. Oh, the grave! the grave! 9 It buries every error: covers every defect: extinguishes every resentment. 10 From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even 11 of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him! 12 : But the grave of those we loved-what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, 13 with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendance; its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, (Oh! how thrilling!) pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There 15 settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition! 14 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given 16 one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul: then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 17 with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. Irving. Sentence 8th.-Compound fragmentary perf. loose indef. interrog, exclam.: Oh! what a place is the grave! what a place is the grave! 1 SEC. XVII. A POLITICAL PAUSE. "But we must pause!" says the honorable gentleman. What! 2 must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out, her best blood spilt, her treasure wasted, that you may make an experiment? 3 Put yourselves, oh! that you would put yourselves, on the field of battle, and learn to judge of the sort of horrors that you excite. In former wars, a man might, at least, have some feeling, some interest, that served to balance in his mind the 4 impressions which a scene of carnage and of death must inflict; but if a man were present now at the field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting, "Fighting!" would be the answer; "they are not fighting; they are pausing." 5 Why is that man expiring? why is that other writhing with agony ? what means this implacable fury? The answer must 6 be, "You are quite wrong, sir: you deceive yourself: they are not fighting; do not disturb them; they are merely pausing! 7 This man is not expiring with agony; that man is not dead; he is only pausing! Lord help you, sir: they are not angry with 8 one another; they have now no cause of quarrel; but their country thinks there should be a pause! All that you see, sir, 9 is nothing like fighting; there is no harm, nor cruelty, nor bloodshed in it, whatever; it is nothing more than a political pause! It is merely to try an experiment, to see whether 10 Bonaparte will not behave himself better than heretofore; and in the mean time we have agreed to a pause, in pure friendship!" 11 And is this the way, sir, that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order? You take up a system calculated to uncivilize the world, to destroy order, to trample on religion, to 12 stifle in the heart, not merely the generosity of noble sentiment, but the affections of social life; and in the prosecution of this system, you spread terror and devastation all around you. Fox. The double compacts in this piece deserve particular attention. The twelfth sentence is a single compact declarative, third form. SEC. XIX. A PART OF EMMETT'S DEFENCE. 1 I am charged with being an emissary of France! 2 An emis3 sary of France! And for what end? 4 It is alleged that I 5 wished to sell the independence of my country! And for what 6 end? Was this the object of my ambition? and is this the mode by which a tribunal of justice reconciles contradictions? 7 No; I am no emissary; and my ambition was to hold a place among the deliverers of my country: not in power, nor in profit, 8 but in the glory of the achievement! Sell my country's inde9 pendence to France! And for what? 10 Was it for a change of 11 masters? No, but for ambition! O, my country, was it personal 12 ambition that could influence me? had it been the soul of my actions, could I not by my education and fortune, by the rank and consideration of my family, have placed myself among the 13 proudest of my oppressors? My country was my idol; to it I sacrificed every selfish, every endearing sentiment; and for it I now offer up my life. 14 O God! No, my lord! I acted as an Irishman, determined on delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and unrelent15 ing tyranny, and from the more galling yoke of a domestic faction, which is its joint partner and perpetrator in the parricide, for the ignominy of existing with an exterior of splendor 16 and of conscious depravity. It was the wish of my heart to extricate my country from this doubly-riveted despotism: I wished to place her independence beyond the reach of any power on earth: I wished to exalt her to that proud station in the world.-Emmett. Sentence 2d.-A fragmentary simple decl. exclam., like the preceding, but delivered with increased surprise and contempt: it may be treated as a def. interrog. excl. and delivered with the rising slide: in this case, however, surprise will be the emotion expressed: not contempt; which I think was the one felt. Sent. 8th.-A simple def. interrog. exclam. Sent. 14th.This begins with a compellative as if a prayer was intended, but breaks off, and proceeds with a double compact. 1 SEC. XX. THE DEATH OF ALTAMONT. The sad evening before the death of this noble youth, I was 2 with him. No one was there but his physician, and an intimate 3 friend, whom he loved and whom he had ruined. At my com4 ing in, he said, You and the physician are come too late. I 5 have neither life nor hope. You both aim at miracles: you I would raise the dead. 6 7 Or I could not have been thus guilty. 8 What has it done 9 to bless and to save me! I have been too strong for Omnipo10 tence! I plucked down ruin! 11 12 14 I said, the blessed Redeemer Hold! hold! you wound me! 13 This is the rock on which I split: I denied his name. Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain would 15 permit, till the clock struck. Then with vehemence-Oh, time! time! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike thy murderer to the 16 heart. How art thou fled forever! 17 A month! 18 Oh, for 19 a single week! I ask not for years, though an age were too little for the much I have to do. 20 21 J 24 25 On my saying, we could not do too much; that heaven was a blessed place So much the worse. 22 'Tis lost! 'tis lost!-25 Heaven is to me the severest part of hell! Soon after, I proposed prayer. Pray you that can. 26 I never prayed. 27 I cannot pray, 28 nor need I. Is not heaven on my side already? 29 It closes with my conscience: its severest strokes but second my own. His friend being much touched, even to tears, at this, (who 30 could forbear? I could not,) with a most affectionate look, he 31 said, Keep those tears for thyself. I have undone thee. 32 Dost weep for me ? 33 That's cruel. 34 What can pain me 35 36 more? Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him. No; stay. 37 Thou still mayest hope, therefore hear me. 38 How madly have I talked! how madly hast thou listened and 39 believed! But look on my present state, as a full answer to thee and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain, but my 40 soul, as if strung up by torment to greater strength and spirit, |