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power-loom and annihilating the steam-engine, because they have taken the place of less useful machinery, as I should think of upholding an institution because it is old. I am not saying that those institutions were not at one time useful, but they were useful just as the hammer was useful when it beat out nails before you got the nailmaker's machine; and we must have improved machinery for legislation as we have for manufactures. No man
can look back to British history, without feeling proud of belonging to the British nation. Though my country has suffered much, my heart throbs to exultation for the entire empire, and to participate in the blessings of a combined nation. I look back to your history, and behold when the other nations of Europe were sinking into despotism, you were fighting for liberty. Englishmen were never to be slaves. You, through the dark ages
feudal tyranny, were better than other nations who could admire, but were not men enough to imitate
I those throbs and throes for liberty at one period overturning the throne, and covering the scaffold with blood, because the people could not believe in the word of their king, and it is a sad thing to have liars about the throne. I see that that struggle ended in giving to military despotism that obedience which the people would not yield to legal monarchy. Then came 1668, and a despot of the same unfortunate breed. The English people had grown wiser than to think of cutting off his foolish head, but sent him to carry it through Europe, to show the folly of an attempt to reduce Britons to the condition of slaves.
THE BROKEN HEART.
Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E-, the Irish patriot, it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy.
He was so young-so intelligent—so generous—so braveso every thing that we are apt to like in a young
His conduct under trial too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation—all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy, even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut
out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frighful, so dishonoured! There was nothing for
memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances that endear the parting scenenothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parching hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her lover. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward wo that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and “ heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely." The person who told me her story had
seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joy less, where all around is gay—to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of her friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines :
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;
For her heart in his grave is lying.
Every note which he loved awaking-
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor long will his love stay behind him!
When they promise a glorious morrow;
PH RENOLOGY. Let the opposers of phrenology give the subject a fair consideration; let them recollect that they have to follow one of two courses, either to disprove the alleged facts brought forward by phrenologists, by showing that nature is in opposition to them, or to allow their assertions, to be true, but the conclusions they draw from them