SEC. XXXII. HOW WE SHOULD LIVE. So live, that when thy summons comes to join To that mysterious realm, where each shall take A mixed sentence, combining two single and one double compact that when thy summons, &c.-then thou go not, &c.-but, &c." Bryant. "So live, SEC. XXXIII. FAME, FOUNDED ON LASTING RESULts, alone DURABLE. Great actions and striking occurrences, having excited 1 a temporary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because they leave no lasting results affecting the prosperity and happiness of communities. Such is fre2 quently the fortune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have been fought, of all the fields fertilized with carnage, of the banners 3 which have been bathed in blood, of the warriors who have hoped that they had risen from the field of conquest, to a glory as bright and as durable as the stars, how few that continue long to interest mankind! The victory of yesterday is reversed by the victory of to-day; the star of mili4 tary glory, rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen: disgrace and disaster hang on the heels of conquest and renown; victor and vanquished presently pass away into oblivion; and the world goes on in its course with the loss only of so many lives and so much treasure. Webster. Sentence 1st.-"Therefore great actions, &c.—when having, &c.-then often, &c.-because, &c " SEC. XXXIV. WAR, CRIME AND TYRANNY AT VARIANCE WITH NATURE. Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? 1 Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furled? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world? 2 What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied? 3 Why then hath Plato lived, or Sidney died? Campbell. SEC. XXXV. GOD ONLY CAN FILL AND SATISFY OUR AFFECTIONS. The motives which are most commonly urged for cher1 ishing supreme affection towards God, are drawn from our frailty and weakness; and from our need of more than human succor in the trials of life and in the pains of death. 2 But religion has a still higher claim. 3 It answers to the deepest want of human nature. We refer to our want of some being or beings, to whom we may give our hearts; 4 whom we may love more than ourselves; for whom we may live and be ready to die; and whose character responds to that idea of perfection, which, however dim and undefined, is an essential element of every human soul. 5 We cannot be happy beyond our love. At the same time, love may prove our chief woe, if bestowed unwisely, disproportionately, and on unworthy objects; if confined to beings of imperfect virtue, with whose feelings we cannot 6 always innocently sympathize: whose interests we cannot always righteously promote: who narrow us to themselves, instead of breathing universal charity; who are frail, mutable, exposed to suffering, pain and death? To secure a growing happiness and a spotless virtue, we need for the heart a being worthy of its whole treasure of love; to whom we may consecrate our whole existence; in approaching whom, we enter an atmosphere of purity and 7 brightness; in sympathizing with whom, we cherish only noble sentiments; in devoting ourselves to whom, we espouse great and enduring interests; in whose character we find the spring of an ever-enlarging philanthropy; and by attachment to whom, all our other attachments are hallowed, protected, and supplied with tender and sublime 8 consolation under bereavements and blighted hope. Such a being is God. Channing. Sentence 6th. This sentence may be treated either as an imperfect loose declarative or an imperfect loose indirect interrogative. I prefer the latter treat ment. SEC. XXXVI. CONTENTMENT IN VIEW OF AGE. True, time will seam and blanch my brow; "It is true, indeed, that time, &c.-but therefore well, because." Bryant. SEC. XXXVII. AN EXHIBITION OF THE EVILS OF THE PRESS-GANG. Would the learned gentleman not let one father, one 1 husband, one brother, one child escape, in this general scene of oppression and injustice! Methinks I hear the heart-felt shrieks of the miserable wife this instant piercing my ears, and entreating, in accents of rage and despair, 2 the midnight ruffian not to drag from her side her tender and affectionate husband: the father of her children and her only support! I think I hear the aged and helpless parent, in accents of sinking woe, misery and distress, bewailing the loss of his dutiful and beloved son! I confess 3 I am filled with horror at the various ills and miseries this instant inflicting in every part of these kingdoms, contrary to every principle of law, justice and humanity! Sir George Saville. Observe that all the sentences in this piece are exclamatory, and as such, to be delivered with emotion. To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. From the moment you 2 lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 3 I have said that at sea all is vacancy. 4 I should correct the expression. To one given up to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full 5 of subjects of meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep and the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter railing, or climb to the main-top, on a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer sea; or to gaze upon the 6 piles of golden clouds, just peering above the horizon, and fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own; or to watch the gentle, undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe, with which I looked down from my giddy height on the monsters of the deep at their 7 uncouth gambols: shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship, the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface, or the ravenous shark darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world 8 beneath me; of the finny herds that roam in the fathomless valleys; of shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth; and those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 9 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! what a glorious monument of human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the earth in communion; 10 has established an interchange of blessings: pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south: diffusing the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier! 11 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 12 a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 13 wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 14 There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 15 for many months: clusters of shell-fish had fastened about 16 it; and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 17 over: they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest: their bones lie whitening in the caverns of the 18 deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them; and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers have been offered up at the deserted fireside of home! how 19 often have the maiden, the wife, and the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! how has expectation darkened into anxiety; anxiety into dread; and dread into despair! 20 Alas! not one memento shall return for love to cherish. 21 All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed from port, and was never heard of more. Irving. Sentence 5th.-The second part of this loose sentence should be treated as a single compact of the third form; correlative words, as-so. Sentence 6th.-An imperfect loose declarative. Sentence 18th.-It may be treated as perfect loose or single compact of the third form: correlative words, because-therefore. The latter treatment is preferable, because a perfect loose precedes with a succession of three closes. Sentence 19th.-A perfect loose indefinite interrogative exclamatory sentence in four parts: the fourth part imperfect loose. SEC. XXXIX. THE DEATH OF HAMILTON. "How are the mighty fallen!" 2 And, regardless as we are of vulgar deaths, shall not the fall of the mighty affect us? 3 A short time since, and he, who is the occasion of our 4 sorrows, was the ornament of his country. He stood on 5 an eminence, and glory covered him. From that eminence 6 he has fallen: suddenly, forever, fallen. His intercourse with the living world is now ended; and those who would hereafter find him, must seek him in the grave. There, cold and lifeless, is the heart which just now was the seat of friendship; there, dim and sightless is the eye, whose 7 radiant and enlivening orb beamed with intelligence; and there, closed forever, are those lips, on whose persuasive accents we have so often, and so lately, hung with transport! From the darkness which rests upon his tomb, there 8 proceeds, methinks, a light in which it is clearly seen, that those gaudy objects, which men pursue, are only 9 phantoms. In this light, how dimly shines the splendor of victory how humble appears the majesty of grandeur! The bubble, which seemed to have so much solidity, 10 has burst; and we again see, that all below the sun is vanity. True the funeral eulogy has been pronounced, the sad and solemn procession has moved, the badge of mourning has already been decreed, and presently the sculptured marble 11 will lift up its front, proud to perpetuate the name of Hamilton, and rehearse to the passing traveler his virtues; (just tributes of respect, and to the living useful;) but to him, mouldering in his narrow and humble habitation, what 12 are they? How vain! how unavailing! 13 Approach, and behold, while I lift from his sepulchre 14 its covering! Ye admirers of his greatness! ye emulous of his talents and his fame, approach and behold him now. 15 How pale! how silent! No martial bands admire the 16 adroitness of his movements; no fascinating throng weep, 17 and melt, and tremble at his eloquence! Amazing change! 18 A shroud! a coffin! a narrow, subterraneous cabin!—this is all that now remains of Hamilton! and is this all that 19 remains of Hamilton? During a life so transitory, what lasting monument, then, can our fondest hopes erect! |