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active friends of union, and implacable enemies to every attempt at a disruption of the ties that bind the states together. With minds enlightened too by the highest attainments in learning, and familiarly conversant with the history of their race, with the rise and fall of empires, the prosperity and happiness of free states, and the blighting effects of tyranny, in whatever portion of the earth it may have reared its horrid form and extended its iron sway, they would necessarily be found the decided champions of liberty, and most efficient opponents of despotic and irresponsible power. We touch upon this last point with the more solicitude, as upon a brief and superficial view of this subject, an institution such as we have before depicted, might in the imaginations of some assume an aristocratic shape, and be supposed to lead to an undue elevation of one portion of our community over the other, and give rise to those distinctions among the citizens, which might awake ambitious hopes and break in upon that admirable simplicity and perfect equality which at present so happily pervade all classes of society, and form the basis of those liberties which we enjoy. Were there any danger of consequences of this nature to our country, no one would more fervently deprecate the introduction of so baneful an establishment, than we should. Heaven protect my country from any measures which would lead to an alteration in the spirit of our present inimitable forms of government, or to the corruption of our present manners! But nothing can be more certain than that an institute of this kind would not only produce no consequences unfavorable to our free institutions and laws, and incompatible with their spirit, but would become one of their ablest supports and firmest pillars. If we review the history of man, throughout all ages, we shall invariably find, that learning and learned men have been the boldest opponents of tyrants, and most successful advocates of freedom. From the very nature of things, it must be so. The very character of their pursuits requires the exercise of freedom. Freedom is the wholesome atmosphere in which learning and philosophy live and flourish, and tyranny of all kinds is to them pestilence and death. The pursuits of science instruct men in their native rights, and enable them more keenly to descry the slightest encroachments upon them. Philosophy, too, while she invigorates the powers of the mind, and elevates the views and sentiments of men, augments their detestation of oppression, and their fortitude to resist it. Accordingly, what have been the facts presented to us in the history of the human race, and amidst the endless revolutions of government? Have not the wisest and most learned men been uniformly the most efficient leaders in advocating the cause of freedom, and the most formidable enemies of tyrants? What but the indulgence of free opinions filled for Socrates the poisoned bowl, and banished other philosophers from Athens? What but resistance of military misrule brought Cicero to an untimely end, and drenched Rome with the blood of her wisest and best citizens? Have not learned men, in modern Europe, broken the shackles of Papal despotism, scattered the shades of superstition by the lights of science, overturned the thrones of tyranny, and prescribed limits to monarchical rule both in England and France, while in

their works they unfolded to their subjects their native and unalienable rights, and established their liberties upon immoveable foundations of natural law and immutable justice? Who but their sages and learned men excited the French revolution, rode in its storm and conducted it to wholesome issues, and have since divested the thrones of England and France of those overwhelmning terrors which once encompassed them, and freed their subjects from intolerable thraldom? It is science and its cultivators that have changed the whole face of Europe in recent times, reformed and purified the church, broken the yoke of bondage in the state, and which at this moment is advancing by a steady progress toward the universal predominance of liberal principles and the sway of truth, justice, and humanity. We cannot, therefore, raise up among us more devoted friends to our free institutions and laws, or more able defenders of our rights and liberties, than will be furnished by a seminary, which will prove the nursery to able scholars and sound philosophers. Let us, then, unite in our endeavors to accelerate the process, by which such benefactors will be supplied to the republic.

We often hear the remark repeated in conversation, that our country has not yet arrived at that state of opulence and maturity, in which she would be fitted for the advancement of science, and cultivation of letters and the arts. Lord Bacon observes, that nations are at first war-like, then literary, and finally, both literary and warlike. If the laws of nature inevitably conduct a state through these stages of existence, we trust that ours will soon reach the scientific and literary condition, without depreciating in physical strength and military power. No opinion can be less founded than that which supposes that we have not sufficiently advanced in wealth to reach the highest distinction in the arts and sciences. New-York alone possesses ample means, did she feel the inclination, and would she but direct some of her activity and enterprise in so noble a channel, to raise the sciences and arts to as high perfection as they ever attained in any age or country. If the single family of the Medici could accomplish such wonders in Florence, what might not be effected by the united exertions of the wealthy in that large and flourishing capital? Any of the men of wealth and influence, who shall engage in this laudable undertaking, will crown themselves with unfading honors, and confer substantial benefits upon their country.

The property destroyed by the late desolating fire, would have filled our great emporium of commerce with all the most precious monuments of art from Europe-furnished ample encouragement to men of genius from all quarters-collected the largest library now known upon earth and have erected institutions which would have given an irresistible impulse to literary industry, and in time have adorned our country with her Newton, her Locke, her Milton, her Shakspeare, and her long list of those venerable names whose labors and talents are the richest treasures of a nation, and confer upon her a desirable immortality. And can it be, that with a country so rich and flourishing as ours, so distinguished by activity and intelligence, devoted to every useful pursuit, and capable of so many magnificent enterprises, we could not make adequate provision

for the progress and highest advancement of the sciences and arts? No opinion could be less founded in truth. Give us but the zeal which is requisite in such matters, and we should soon rival the states of Europe in letters, as we now do in arms, government, political wisdom, and in agricultural and commercial property.



BY THE AUTHOR OF GUY RIVERS,' 'THE YEMassee,' 'the partisan,' etc.

Ir is said by Dr. O'Meara, in his 'Voice from Helena,' that Napoleon conversed much upon the probability of a revolution in France. Ere twenty years,' said he, 'have elapsed, when I am dead and buried, you will witness another revolution in France. It is impossible that twenty-nine millions of Frenchmen can live contented under the yoke of sovereigns imposed upon them by foreigners, and against whom they have fought and bled for nearly thirty years. Can you blame the French for not being willing to submit to the yoke of such animals as Moncheme? The verses which follow were written soon after the famous 'three days.


AND deem'st thou that France, in her free shining valleys,

And the people so gallant in peace and in war,

Shall slumber supinely when Liberty rallies,

And waves her proud ensign of triumph afar?
Content in their chain, and unconscious of glory,
Untroubled by shame, and unfit to be free,

Shall the people, already immortal in story,

To the tyrants they 've fought with so long, bend the knee?


Believe it not, stranger, though now they dissemble,
Since weaken'd by fight and by fraud overthrown;
They will rise in their might and the tyrants shall tremble,
Who for thirty long years they have fought with aione.
Then who shall resist the fierce strength of that power,
When her millions of freemen in might shall advance,
With one spirit imbued, at the same glorious hour,
To strike for the honor and freedom of France!


Believe not that long 'neath the shroud of dishonor
Her national spirit shall slumber in shame;

Already the day-star is bursting upon her,

And guiding her feet back to freedom and fame!
No stain on her shield, and no blot in her story,

No chain on her wrist, and no grief on her brow,

I see her arise in the bloom of her glory,

As if its warm lustre shone over me now.


She will blush for her shame she will rise with the terror,
The wrath and the ardor of freedom, alike;

And dearly the tyrant shall pay for his error,

And firmly and fairly shall Liberty strike;

No lip shall reprove them, no power may subdue them,

No folly mislead them, but firm as the shore,

They will rise for their rights, and the nations shall view them,

Asserting their freedom, and taking no more!



THERE stands an old church in the village of B, which is one of the dearest mementos of my remembrance. It has held itself firmly up beneath the weight of a century, and looks as venerable as Time itself. It is just apart from the compact portion of the village, surrounded by the inspiring objects that nature often produces. It is also buried in the depth of a majestic grove, ancient as itself, whose foliage twinkles to the least breath of summer air. The grove is all alive with the songs of the birds, and they cluster around the eaves of the old edifice, as if they loved it with more than human affection. The spire shoots lightly out from the green branches of the trees, and is surmounted by a cock, sitting up as prim as a maid of forty, watching, as it were, the whereabouts of the villagers. It has been declared by the sexton that the cock was invariably in the habit of spreading its wings and crowing as the week ended, at twelve, on Saturday, at midnight; but the deacon always said there was some doubt about that. The interior was also remarkable for its age, and the very organ appeared to have a trembling tone of antiquity. There were initials cut on the walls many years ago, by those whose names may be now found carved in the burying-ground. I have paced its aisles, and listened to the pensive melody of the autumn crickets, for they haunted and loved the spot. I have heard the chattering locusts about it in the silent August noon, and the whippoorwill oft visited the spot in the twilight of the early morning.


How many hours I have mused upon that spot! There was the chorister he who officiated half a century in that capacity-combining the avocations of sexton, Sunday-school teacher, bell-ringer, sweeper, grave-digger, and the thousand other duties that linger around a church. Alas! poor Yorick!'—his modest little gravestone is the only record left of him. He was called 'Simon.' Simon! how familiar it sounds! Morning, noon, and night, he was to be seen bustling about the edifice. He was a particular man. took more pride in his bell-rope than in all other objects whatever; and what is worthy of remark,.he had it beautifully painted from end to end. He once drowned a sacrilegious cat for daring to walk through the sanctuary; and even the flies were not permitted to hum around the building. His vocal music has never been equalled. He kept one string in his nose which produced a twang that stands entirely unparalleled. Methinks I see him now, standing erect, with his book in hand, his spectacles on the tip of his nose, his eyes closed, dragging moderately through an old psalm-his voice growing weaker and weaker, as sleep gently descends upon him. And then, as he walked through the middle aisle, and delivered a note to the minister, there was an air of business depicted on his countenance a responsibility-a smile of familiarity when he delivered his charge a something that cast a breathless silence over the congregation, and attracted every eye toward him. Simon endeavored to be a pious man, but he once took the name of his God in vain,' and he was never known to smile after. The truth may as well out, and this was the cause: Some rude boys, instigated by Satan, no doubt,

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one cold Saturday evening, turned up the mouth of Simon's bell, and charged it with water. During the night it became congealed, and on the following morning was a solid blue mass of ice. Simon appeared as usual, shook out his rope, and commenced preparations; but there was no sound. He started, for he was superstitious. He resolved to ascend into the belfry; but a second thought warned him against such temerity. Spirits might be hovering there, and his tongue, too, might lose its locomotive power. Away he ran, through the village, declaring that Satan, or some other power, had taken possession of the church-bell. He immediately raised a body of twelve armed men to march to the rescue. After much bustle, they arrived, and declared the bell to be frozen into silence, and hinted that Simon was the sole cause of it. Simon denied it. You admit the doors were locked on your arrival-it must be charged upon you,' said one of the band to the sexton. No, by my soul,' replied he. They persisted, and Simon persisted, until the latter, in a whirlwind of passion, said, ' he'd be d―d if he did!' and that settled the matter. That was a sad day for Simon- a day which ruined him temporally if not spiritually. But methinks, like the first oath of Uncle Toby, the 'recording angel dropped a tear, and blotted it out forever.'

Few now recollect Simon. Those who looked upon him in his official capacity, have long since gone to sleep, as well as himself. Many of the mounds in the little yard around his own were raised by his hand; and many is the breast that Simon has silently sodded down. It was a school which taught him much, and the effects of which improved his life, until the same good office was done for him which he had so often performed for others. There, too, was old father Brewer.

For forty years he occupied one particular seat. Neither summer's heat nor winter's cold kept him from the church. There he sat in the corner, round and heavy, his head naked, save a few white locks that fluttered thinly around his temples. When he passed away, there was a vacancy in the whole house. Something seemed wrong. He had so long been an objecta something during a weary discourse, to fix your eye upon, and find rest. It was long before that vacuum was filled, and in fact, it only gradually healed, like a desperate wound. 'Father Brewer' received his title from the circumstance of his being one of the fathers of the village. He was one of those who knew the day when the spot was a forest; when the wolf howled far and wide; when the Indian walked forth like a king, clad in the wild romance of his tribe; and only here and there the smoke of the white man curled among the green branches of the trees. He was instrumental in raising the little church in the shadows of the wilderness, and lived to behold that wilderness melt around it like the April snow, and stand forth, as it does now, in the sunshine of the blue heavens. His death was as quiet and tranquil as the sinking of the evening star, which vanishes in purity and silence. He was not cut down, but gathered. Father Brewer, too, is gone!

Parson Johnson was a peculiar man. He was one of those divines who practised, as near as poor human frailty would allow, what he preached; and this was all he sought in the ways of his beloved little flock. There was nothing boisterous in his manner, as he stood forth

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