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sane or moderately insane man, woman, or child, because of the discovery that in the good providence of God it could be made available for the service and use of man to an immeasurably greater extent than for his destruction? Do I make a more material journey to the bedside of my dying parent or my dying child when I travel there at the rate of sixty miles an hour, than when I went thither at the rate of six ? Rather, in the swiftest case, does not my agonized heart become over-fraught with gratitude to that Supreme Beneficence from whom alone could have proceeded the wonderful means of shortening my suspense?

What is the materiality of the cable or the wire compared with the materiality of the spark? What is the materiality of certain chemical substances that we can weigh or measure, imprison or release, compared with the materiality of their appointed affinities and repulsion present in them from the instant of their creation to the day of judgment? When did this so-called material age begin? With the use of clothing; with the discovery of the compass; with the invention of the art of printing ? Surely it has been a long time about. And which is the more material object—the farthing tallow candle that will not give me light, or that flame of gas which will?

No, ladies and gentlemen, do not let us be discouraged or deceived by any fine, vapid, empty words. The true material age is the stupid Chinese age, in which no new or grand revelations of nature are granted, because they are ignorantly and insolently repelled, instead of being diligently and humbly sought.

On the Being of a God.

EDWARD YOUNG.

Retire;—the world shut out;—thy thoughts call home;Imagination's airy wing repress ;

Lock up thy senses;- let no passions stir ;-
Wake all to Reason-let her reign alone;-
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire:
What am I? and from whence? I nothing know
But that I am; and, since I am, conclude
Something eternal; had there e'er been nought,
Nought still had been; Eternal there must be-
But what eternal? Why not human race,
And Adam's ancestors without an end ?-
That's hard to be conceived; since ev'ry link
Of that long chain's succession is so frail:
Can every part depend, and not the whole?
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise;
I'm still quite out at sea; nor see the shore.
Whence earth, and these bright orbs ?—Eternal too?
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs
Would want some other Father—much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes.
Design implies intelligence and art,
That can't be from themselves—or man; that art
Man scarce can comprehend could man bestow ?
And nothing greater yet allow'd than man.-
Who motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? Then each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right
To dance, would form a universe of dust.
Has matter none? Then whence these glorious forms
And boundless flights, from shapeless and reposed?
Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn’d

In mathematics? Has it framed such laws,
Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ?-
If art to form, and counsel to conduct,
And that with greater far than human skill,
Reside not in each block;—a God-head reigns;-
And, if a God there is, that God how great!

Belial's Address.

JOHN MILTON.

I should be much for open war, 0 Peers, As not behind in hate, if what was urged Main reason to persuade immediate war, Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success ;When he, who most excels in fact of arms, In what he counsels, and in what excels, Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge! First, what revenge?—The towers of Heaven are filled With arméd watch, that render all access Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions; or, with obscure wing, Scout far and wide into the realm of night, Scorning surprise.—Or, could we break our way By force, and, at our heels, all hell should rise, With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light; yet our great Enemy, All incorruptible, would, on His throne, Sit unpolluted ; and the ethereal mould, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious.

Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair: we must exasperate The Almighty Victor to spend all His rage, And that must end us; that must be our cure,To be no more.—Sad cure !—for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity',To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion ? And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry Foe Can give it, or will ever? How He can, Is doubtful; that He never will, is sure. Will He, so wise, let loose at once His ire, Belike through impotence, or unaware, To give His enemies their wish, and end Them in His anger, whom His anger saves To punish endless ?-"Wherefore cease we, then?" Say they, who counsel war: “We are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe: Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse?” Is this, then, worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What! when we fled amain, pursued and struck With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The deep to shelter us? this hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds! or when we lay Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into seven-fold rage, And plunge us in the flames ? or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us? what, if all Her stores were opened, and this firmament

Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire,
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall
One day upon our heads? while we, perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious war,
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled,
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds; or forever sunk
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved,
Ages of hopeless end ?—this would be worse.
War, therefore, open or concealed, alike
My voice dissuades.

- Paradise Lost, Book II.

TONE OF AFFECTION.

(See Tone Drill No. 5.) [The tone of Affection is akin to that of Love, but has not the same intensity and abandon. It is more under control, and usually has the approval of the judgment.]

The Star Spangled Banner.

HENRY WATTERSON.

The Star-Spangled Banner! Was ever flag so beautiful? Did ever flag so fill the soul of man? The love of woman; the sense of duty; the thirst for glory; the heart throbbing that impels the humblest American to stand by his colors fearless in the defence of his native land, and holding it sweet to die for it-the yearning which draws him to it when exiled from it-its free institutions and its blessed memories, all are embodied and symbolized by the broad stripes and bright stars of the nation's emblem. All live again in the lines and tones of Key's anthem.

Two or three began the song, millions joined the chorus. They are singing it in Porto Rican trenches and on the ram.

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