LXV.-MASSACHUSETTS AND SOUTH CAROLINA.

FROM WEBSter.

DANIEL WEBSTER was born in 1782. He graduated at the age of twenty, and established himself in the practice of the law in New Hampshire. He became a member of Congress at the age of thirty, in which he continued, with few intermissions, until his death, holding the foremost rank as an orator, statesman, and expounder of the Constitution. This is an extract from his answer to the preceding speech. He died in 1852.

1. THE eulogium pronounced on the character of the State of South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge that the honorable member goes before me, in regard for whatever of distinguished talent or distinguished character, South Carolina has produced. I claim part of the honor; I partake in the pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen', one' and all the Laurenses', the Rutledges', the Pinckneys', the Sumters', the Marions-Americans all-whose fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow limits.

2. In their day and generation, they served and honored the country, and the whole country, and their renown is of the treasures' of the whole country. Him', whose honored name the gentleman himself` bears,—does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his' patriotism, or sympathy for his' suffering, than if his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of South Carolina'! Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit in Carolina a name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom'? No, sir,-increased gratification' and delight rather. Sir, I thank God', that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to be 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 happened to spring up beyond the little limits of my own'

state or neigborhood; 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 or virtue in any son of the South'; and if, moved by local prejudice', or gangrened by state jealousy, I get up here to abate a tithe of a hair` from his just character and just famc', mãy my tongue cleave to the rōōf of my mouth.

4. 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-Hil'; and there they will remain forever'. 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 restraint', shall succeed to separate 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 gathered around it; and it will fall at last, if fall it must', amid the proudest monuments of its glory and on the very spot of its origin.

LXVI. THE LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.
FROM ATHERSTONE.

HERCULANEUM and Pompeii were cities of Italy, which were destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius, being entirely buried under ashes and lava. During the last century, they have been dug out to a considerable extent, and the streets, buildings, and utensils have been found in a state of perfect preservation.

A Roman soldier, for some daring deed

That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low

2.

Chained down.

His was a noble spirit, rough,

But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son'; it was a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire,

In face and gesture. From infancy, the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and heightened. But at length,
The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned
To fetters and to darkness.

3.

4.

5.

The captive's lot,

He felt in all its bitterness: the walls

Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh

And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched
His jailer with compassion`; and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled

His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence, that in every wound
Dropped healing. But, in this terrific hour,
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast

Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came.

The iron door was closed-for them

Never to open more! The day', the night
Dragged slowly by`; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking; and the air

Grew hot at length, and thick`; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping1: and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by: nor would he wake
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state.

(1) On his low couch

The fettered soldier sank, and with deep awe,

Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye.

To the great gōds he breathed a prayer; then, strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep' awhile

His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:

His body burned with feverish heat; his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not'; deep in earth

6.

7.

8.

Groaned unimaginable thunders'; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died`,

Like the sad mōanings of Novēmber's wind,

In the blank mīdnight. (l) Dēēpest hōrror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold, clammy sweats

Came ō'er him; then anon, a fiery thrill

Shot through his veins. Now, on his couch he shrunk,
And shivered as in fear; now, upright leaped,

As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death.

He slept, at last,

A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept
Never to waken more! His hours are few,
But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm

Burst forth; the lightnings glanced'; the air

Shook with the thunders. They awoke`; they sprung

Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed

A moment as in sunshine-and was dark:

Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell,

Dying away upon the dazzled eye

In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.

With intensest awe,

The soldier's frame was filled'; and many a thought

Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth

Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls,

Heard harshly grate and strain': yet knew he not,

While evils undefined and yet to come

Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound

Fate had already` given.— Where`, man of woe'!

Where', wretched father'! is thy boy? Thou call'st

His name in vain':-he can not answer thee.

9. Loudly the father called upon his child':

No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously

He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth':-nō child was there.
(h) Again' he called: again', at farthest stretch
Of his accursèd fetters, till the blood

Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes

10.

Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renewed: still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches', and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy.

(hh) Mad frenzy fires him now.
He plants against the wall his feet; his chain
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple`; yells' and shrieks with rage:
And, like a desert lion in the snare,

Raging to break his toils,-to and fro bounds'.
(7) But see! the ground is opening';—a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,-noiseless;-thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow' tint, not flăme;
But by its luster, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed,
And, o'er his face serene, a darkened line
Points out the lightning's track.

11.

12.

(1) The father saw,

And all his fury fled`:-
:-a dead calm fell

That instant on him:-speechless'-fixed' he stood`;
And with a look that never wandered', gazed
Intensely on the corse'. Those laughing eyes'
Were not yet closed',--and round those ruby lips
The wonted smile returned'.

Silent and pale

The father stands:-no tear is in his eye :-
The thunders bellow';-but he hears them not':-
The ground lifts like a sea;-he knows it not' :-
The strong walls grind and gape':-the vaulted roof
Takes shape like bubble tossing in the wind';
See! he looks up and smiles'; for death to him
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace
Be given', 't were still a sweeter` thing to die.

13. It will be given. (h) Look! how the rolling ground, At every swell, nearer and still more near

Moves toward the father's outstretched arm his boy. Once he has touched his garment:-how his eye Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears\! Ha', see! he has him now!-he clasps him round; Kisses his face; puts back the curling locks,