Roted Sayings. REPLY TO THE FRENCH DIRECTORY. 1796. Millions for defence, but not one cent for tribute. CHARLES COTESWORTH PINCKNEY. 1746-1825. A TOAST ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF JEFFERSON'S BIRTHDAY, 13 APRIL, 1830. Our Federal Union: it must be preserved. ANDREW JACKSON. 1767-1845. AGAINST THE ADMISSION OF LOUISIANA TO THE UNION. 1811. I am compelled to declare it as my deliberate opinion, that, if this bill passes, the bonds of this Union are virtually dissolved; that the States which compose it are free from their moral obligations, and that as it will be the right of all, so it will be the duty of some, to prepare, definitely, for a separation: amicably, if they can; violently, if they must. JOSIAH QUINCY, 3D. 1772-1864. A NAVAL HERO'S SENTIMENT. 1816. Our Country! In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right; but our Country, right or wrong. STEPHEN DECATUR. 1779-1820. AFTER THE VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE, 10 SEPTEMBER, 1813. We have met the enemy, and they are ours. OLIVER HAZARD PERRY. 1785-1820. Levi Frisbie. BORN in Ipswich, Mass., 1784. DIED at Cambridge, Mass., 1822. THE DREAM. [Miscellaneous Writings of Professor Frisbie. 1823.] TAY, stay, sweet vision, do not leave me; ST Soft sleep, still o'er my senses reign; Thy head was on my shoulder leaning; No word was spoken, all was feeling, And could this be but mere illusion? I'm sure I felt thy forehead pressing, Joseph Stevens Buckminster. BORN in Portsmouth, N. H., 1784. DIED in Boston, Mass., 1812. THE FUTURE LIFE. [Sermons. 1829.] ́HEREVER we may exist hereafter, we shall not cease to be men. Our human nature will not be changed into the angelic, nor shall we constitute a different order of beings. It is true our Lord has said, that they who are worthy to attain that world, neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of light. This change, however, in our condition, results, as we may well suppose, from our freedom from these material bodies; and the language of our Saviour is rather a precaution against the sensual fancies of those who would transfer to heaven the delights of a terrestrial paradise, than any specific description of a future world. We shall not, however, be transformed into a superior order of spirits, as angels are imagined to be; for if this were to be the case, there would be no propriety in saying that we should be like them. What then! are not all our imperfections to be removed? Are we to continue to be frail, limited, finite creatures? Must we still be men? I hope there is no presumption in replying, that we must. For is man, the work of God, the image of the supreme intellect, so poor and worthless a creature that his nature is not worthy of being continued? Let us learn to think more worthily of our destination. If man has been granted so exalted a place in the infinite works of the Creator, he is no doubt worthy of being continued in that exalted station. We find nothing in what we are allowed to observe in the works of God, which indicates that any chasm is to be left in the scale of being, by the transformation of one rank into another. The plan of God appears to be the progressive improvement of the individuals of a species, not the gratification of that vain ambition by which "men would be angels, angels would be gods." Not only may we conclude that our human nature will be preserved, but that every individual also, will retain his own individual nature, or that which distinguishes him from every other person. Every man has his peculiar capacity, or disposition, which he brought with him into the world, or which he has acquired by diligent cultivation, and we have no reason to imagine that these discriminating properties of his character are to be abolished by the dissolution of his body. In the future world, as in the present, an harmonious whole will no doubt be composed by every one's filling his proper place; by every description of mind finding its proper rank, employment, and happiness; but we have reason to expect a far more perfect state than the present, because composed of better spirits. There, no doubt, as well as here, the degrees of happiness will be as various as the diversities of attainments in knowledge and virtue. It will be enough to secure the perfection of that state, that every one may strive for higher degrees of virtue and happiness without envy; enjoy what is peculiar to himself, and proceed towards the highest points of human perfection, without interruption from the cares, the passions, and the sorrows of this life. Eliza Southgate Bowne. BORN in Scarboro, Me., 1784. Daughter of Robert Southgate, and wife of Walter Bowne, Mayor of New York. DIED at Charleston, S. C., 1809. WINTER EPISODES IN MAINE. [By permission of Mr. Walter Lawrence, from Letters copied from the originals by his mother, Mrs. Mary King Bowne Lawrence.] UCH a frolic! Such a chain of adventures I never before met with SUCH -nay, the page of romance never presented its equal. 'Tis now Monday-but a little more method, that I may be understood. I have just ended my assembly's adventure; never got home till this morning. Thursday it snowed violently—indeed for two days before it had been storming so much that the snow-drifts were very large; however, as it was the last assembly, I could not resist the temptation of going, as I knew all the world would be there. About seven I went down-stairs and found young Charles Coffin, the minister, in the parlor. After the usual inquiries were over, he stared a while at my feathers and flowers, asked if I was going out. I told him I was going to the assembly. "Think, Miss Southgate," said he, after a long pause, "Do you think you would go out to meeting in such a storm as this?" Then assuming a tone of reproof, he entreated me to examine well my feelings on such an occasion. I heard in silence, unwilling to begin an argument that I was unable to support. The stopping of the carriage roused me; I immediately slipped on my socks and coat and met Horatio and Mr. Motley in the entry. The snow was deep, but Mr. Motley took me up in his arms and sat me in the carriage without difficulty. I found a full assembly, many married ladies, and every one disposed to end the winter in good spirits. At one we left dancing and went to the card-room to wait for a coach. It stormed dreadfully; the hacks were all employed as soon as they returned, and we could not get one till three o'clock, for about two they left the house, determined not to return again for the night. It was the most violent storm I ever knew, there were now twenty in waiting, the gentlemen scolding and fretting, the ladies murmuring and complaining. One hack returned; all flocked to the stairs to engage a seat. So many crowded down that 'twas impossible to get past; luckily I was one of the first. I stepped in; found a young lady, almost a stranger in town, who keeps at Mrs. Jordan's, sitting in the back seat; she immediately caught hold of me and begged, if I possibly could accommodate her, to take her home with me, as she had attempted to go to Mrs. Jordan's, but the drifts were so high, the horses could not get through; that they were compelled to return to the hall, where she had not a single acquaintance with whom she could go home. I was distressed, for I could not ask her home with me-for sister had so much company that I was obliged to go home with Sally Weeks and give my chamber to Parson Coffin. I told her this and likewise that she should be provided for if my endeav ors could be of any service. None but ladies were permitted to get into the carriage; it presently was stowed in [so] full that the horses could not move. The door was burst open, for such a clamor as the closing of it occasioned I never before heard; the universal cry was-"A gentleman in the coach," "let him come out." We all protested there was none, as it was too dark to distinguish-but the little man soon raised his voice and bid the coachman proceed. A dozen voices gave contrary orders 'twas a proper riot. I was really alarmed. My gentleman, with a vast deal of fashionable independence, swore no power on earth should make him quit his seat, but a gentleman at the door jumped into the carriage, caught hold of him, and would have dragged him out if we had not all entreated them to desist. He squeezed again into his seat, inwardly exulting to think he should get safe home from such rough creatures as the men, should pass for a lady, be secure under their protection, for none would insult him before them-mean creature! The carriage at length started, full of ladies and not one gentleman to protect us-except our ladyman who had crept to us for shelter. When we found ourselves in the street, the first thing was to find out who was in the carriage, and where we were all going, who first must be left. Luckily, two gentlemen had followed by the side of the carriage, and when it stopped took out the ladies as they got to their houses. Our sweet little trembling, delicate, unprotected fellow sat immovable whilst the two gentlemen, that were obliged to walk through all the snow and storm, carried all the ladies from the carriage. What could be the motive of the little wretch for creeping in with us I know not; I should have thought 'twas his great wish to serve the ladies, if he had moved from the seat; but 'twas the most singular thing I ever heard of. We at length arrived at the place of our destination. Miss Weeks asked Miss Coffin (for that was the unlucky girl's name) to go home with her, which she readily did; the gentlemen then proceeded to take us out. My beau, unused to carrying such a weight of sin [and] folly, sunk under its pressure, and I was obliged to carry my mighty self through the snow, which almost buried me. Such a time! I never shall forget it. My great-grandmother never told any of her youthful adventures to equal it. The storm continued till Monday, and I was obliged to stay-but Monday I insisted, if there was any possibility of getting to sister's, to set out. The horse and sleigh were soon at the door, and again I sallied forth to brave the tempestuous weather (for it still snowed) and surmount the many obstacles I had to meet with. We rode on a few rods-when |