through fear of failing justly to portray the charact of that great man, who is at once the theme of my e comium and regret. He needs not eulogy. His wo is finished, and death has removed him beyond n censure, and I would fondly hope, through grac above my praise. You will ask, then, why I tremble I tremble to think that I am called to attack, from th place, a crime, the very idea of which almost freez one with horror;-a crime, too, which exists amo the polite and polished orders of society, which is a companied with every aggravation; and committed wi cool deliberation, and openly in the face of day! B I have a duty to perform, and difficult and awful that duty is, I will not shrink from it.

Would to God my talents were adequate to the o casion. But such as they are, I devoutly proffer the to unfold the nature, and counteract the influence that barbarous custom, which, like a resistless torre is undermining the foundations of civil governme breaking down the barriers of social happiness, a sweeping away virtue, talents and domestic felicity, its desolating course.

Another and an illustrious character-a fathergeneral—a statesman-the very man who stood on a eminence, and without a rival among sages and heroe the future hope of his country in danger-this ma yielding to the influence of a custom which deserv our eternal reprobation, has been brought to an untim ly end.

The death of public benefactors surcharges the hea and it spontaneously disburdens itself by a flow of so rows. Such was the death of Washington: to embal whose memory and perpetuate whose deathless fam we lent our feeble, but unnecessary services.

Suc also, and more peculiarly so, has been the death of Har ilton. The tidings of the former moved us, mournful moved us, and we wept. The account of the latt

chilled our hopes, and curdled our blood. The former died in a good old age; the latter was cut off in the midst of his usefulness. The former was a customary providence we saw in it, if I may speak so, the finger of God, and rested in his sovereignty. The latter is not attended with this soothing circumstance.

The fall of Hamilton owes its existence to mad deliberation, and is marked by violence. The time, the place, the circumstances, are arranged with barbarous coolness. The instrument of death is levelled in daylight, and with well directed skill pointed at his heart. Alas! the event has proved that it was but too well directed. Wounded, mortally wounded, on the very spot which still smoked with the blood of a favorite son, the father fell.

Ah! had he fallen in the course of nature; or jeopardizing his life in defence of his country; had he fallen-but he did not. He fell in single combat-pardon my mistake-he did not fall in single combat. His noble nature refused to endanger the life of his antagonist. But he exposed his own life. This was his crime and the sacredness of my office forbids that I should hesitate explicitly to declare it so. He did not hesitate to declare it so himself. "My religious and moral principles are strongly opposed to duelling." These are his words before he ventured to the field of death. "I view the late transaction with sorrow and contrition." These are his words after his return. Humiliating end of illustrious greatness! "How are the mighty fallen!" And shall the mighty thus fall? Thus shall the noblest lives be sacrificed and the richest blood be spilt? "Tell it not in Gath; publish it

not in the streets of Askelon!"

Think not that the fatal issue of the late inhuman interview was fortuitous. No; the hand that guides unseen the arrow of the archer, steadied and directed the arm of the duellist. And why did it thus direct it?

As a solemn memento-as a loud and awful warning to a community where justice has slumbered-and slumbered-and slumbered-while the wife has been robbed of her partner, the mother of her hopes, and life after life rashly, and with an air of triumph, sported away.

And was there, O my God! no other sacrifice valuable enough-would the cry of no other blood reach the place of retribution and wake justice, dozing over her awful seat! But though justice should still slumber, and retribution be delayed, we, who are the ministers of that God who will judge the judges of the world, and whose malediction rests on him who does his work unfaithfully, we will not keep silence.

LESSON LXXV.

PASSING AWAY.-A DREAM.

The following beautiful Lyric is from the pen of the REV. JOHN PIERPONT, of Boston. It will require a pupil of fine taste and great delicacy to give full effect to the exquisite picture of Human Life contained in the poem.

Was it the chime of a tiny bell,

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery lights,

And he, his notes as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore-
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,

Are set to words :-as they float, they say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell

Blown on the beach so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl for a pendulum swung (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a Canary Bird swing;) And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

Oh how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow! And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo! she had changed :--in a few short hours
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she dancing swung
In the fullness of grace and of womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;—
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud, in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so slowly round above her,

Was a little dimmed,-as when Evening steals
Upon Noon's hot face.-Yet one could'nt but love her,
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast as she swung all day;
And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan:
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily swung she on ;

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust,
The wheels above her were eaten with rust,
The hands, that o'er the dial swept,

Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone

From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone,-
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay,)

"Passing away! passing away!"