Imatges de pÓgina


the secrets of his soul. Read all the power of domestic Read his strong love of letters and of liberty. Read his fidelity to republican principle, and his jealousy of national character. Read his devotedness to you in his military bequests to near relations. In his acts, Americans, you have seen the man. In the complicated excellence of character, he stands alone. Let no future Plutarch attempt the iniquity of parallel. Let no soldier of fortune, let no usurping conqueror, let not Alexander or Cæsar, let not Cromwell or Bonaparte, let none among the dead or the living, appear in the same picture with WASHINGTON: or let them appear as the shade to his light.

On this subject, my countrymen, it is for others to speculate, but it is for us to feel. Yet in proportion to the severity of the stroke, ought to be our thankfulness, that it was not inflicted sooner. Through a long series of years has God preserved our WASHINGTON a public blessing: and now that he has removed him for ever, shall we presume to say, What doest thou? Never did the tomb preach more powerfully the dependence of all things on the will of the Most High. The greatest of mortals crumble into dust, the moment He commands, "Return, ye children of men." WASHINGTON was but the instrument of a benignant God. He sickens, he dies, that we may learn not to trust in men, nor to make flesh our But though WASHINGTON is dead, JEHOVAH lives. God of our fathers! be our God, and the God of our children! Thou art our refuge and our hope; the pillar of our strength; the wall of our defence, and our unfading glory!


Americans! this God, who raised up WASHINGTON, and gave you liberty, exacts from you the duty of cherishing it with a zeal according to knowledge. Never sully by apathy or by outrage, your fair inheritance. Risk not, for one moment, on visionary theories, the solid blessings of your lot. To, you, particularly, O youth of America! applies the solemn charge. In all the perils of your country, remember WASHINGTON. The freedom of reason and of right, has been handed down to you on the point of the hero's sword. Guard with veneration the sacred deposit. The curse of ages will rest upon you, O youth of America! if ever you surrender to foreign ambition, or domestic lawlessness, the precious liberties for which WASHINGTON fought, and your fathers bled.


Speech of Logan, a Mingo Chief, to Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia-1774.

I APPEAL to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, "Logan is the friend of white men." I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it: I have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance: for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear.. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan ?-Not one.


Extract from a Speech of an Indian Chief to the Provincial Congress, in New-England, April 11th, 1775.

BROTHERS! We have heard you speak by your letter-we thank you for it-we now make answer. Brothers! you remember when you first came over the great waters, I was great and you were little, very small. I then took you in for a friend, and kept you under my arms, so that no one might injure you; since that time we have ever been true friends; there has never been any quarrel between us. But now our conditions are changed. You are become great and tall. You reach to the clouds. You are seen all round the

world. I am become small, very little. I am not so high as your heel. Now you take care of me, and I look to you for protection. Brothers! I am sorry to hear of this great quarrel between you and Old England. It appears that blood soon must be shed to end this quarrel. We never, till this day, understood the foundation of this quarrel between you and the country you came from. Brothers! whenever I see your blood running, you will soon find me about you, to revenge my brothers' blood. Although I am low and very small, I will gripe hold of your enemy's heel, that he cannot run so fast and so light as if he had nothing at his heels.

Brothers! I would not have you think that we are falling back from our engagements. We are ready to do any thing for your relief, and shall be guided by your counsel.


Extract from the Speech of Red Jacket, an Indian Chief, to one of the Missionaries of the Missionary Society.

Friend and Brother,-IT was the will of the Great Spirit that we should meet together this day. He orders all things, and has given us a fine day for our Council. HE has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened, that we see clearly; our ears are unstopped, that we have been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken. For all these favors we thank the Great Spirit, and HIM only.

Brother-Listen to what we say.

There was a time when our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun. The Great Spirit had made it for the use of Indians. He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver. Their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the country, and taught us how to take them. He had caused the earth to produce corn for bread. All this He had done

for his red children, because he loved them. If we had some disputes about our hunting ground, they were generally settled without the shedding of much blood. But an evil day came upon us. Your forefathers crossed the great water, and landed on this island. Their numbers were small. They found friends and not enemies. They told us they had fled from their own country, for fear of wicked men, and had come here to enjoy their religion. They asked for a small seat. We took pity on them, granted their request; and they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat; they gave us poison in return.

The white people had now found our country. Tidings were carried back, and more came amongst us. Yet we did not fear them. We took them to be friends. They called us brothers. We believed them, and gave them a larger seat. At length their numbers had greatly increased. They wanted more land; they wanted our country. Our eyes were opened, and our minds became uneasy. Wars took place. Indians were hired to fight against Indians, and many of our people were destroyed. They also brought strong liquor amongst us. It was strong and powerful, and has slain thousands.

Brother-You have now heard our answer to your talk, and this is all we have to say at present.

As we are going to part, we will come and take you by the hand, and hope the Great Spirit will protect you on your journey, and return you safe to your friends.

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Anonymous. From the London Literary Chronicle.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurned

The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valor burned

And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land where the gallant Spartan few

Bled at Thermopyla of yore,
When death his purple garment threw !
On Helle's consecrated shore!

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No! coward souls-the light that shone
On Leutra's war-empurpled day-
The light that beamed on Marathon,

Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered-spear in rustThy honor but a dream-and thou Despised-degraded-in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told

How fatal was the despot's doom? The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay,

Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled,
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living-but the dead!

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