disastrous encounter between Burr and his vanquished rival should have awakened something different than indiscriminate condemnation of the one and eulogy of the other. The crime was magnified, while the guilt of that sentiment of society which sanctioned duelling was entirely overlooked. Not the death of Hamilton, but the fickleness of public favor ruined Burr. There is more than ordinary sadness connected with the life of this unfortunate man. His success was so rapid, brilliant, unprecedented; his fall so sudden, unforeseen, disastrous. The charity, bravery, and fortitude of the gentleman, soldier, and statesman did not forsake the man who was branded by his enemies "traitor and homicide." He was neither a coward, nor a misanthrope. An exile, he was no Arnold; an outcast, no Timon. His country owed him little but gratitude. This it withheld. His triumphs were national, his defeats and disgrace his own,

A. L. BLAIR.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

HOLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so!
There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow!
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,
And faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair!
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, it would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him; you think so; and I
Am only his mother: My boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that my own may soon share!
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

Will you go? then no fainting! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps! My heart will lead right!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Ah, God! What is here? A great heap of the slain,
All mangled and gory! What horrible pain

These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,

Ye weep, oh! ye weep, o'er the terrible sleep!

25

There's the moon through the clouds: Oh! Christ, what a scene!

Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such visions lean
And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine?
Hark! A groan: then another: here in this line

Piled close on each other.

Torn, dripping with gore!

Ah, here is the flag,

Pah! they died for this rag!

Here's the voice that we seek: Poor soul, do not start:

We're women, not ghosts.

Is there aught we can do?

To

What a gash o'er the heart!

A message to give

any beloved one? I swear if I live

To take it for sake of the words my boy said,

"Home," "Mother," "Wife"-ere he reeled down 'mong the dead!

But first, can you tell where his regiment stood?
Speak, speak, man, or point! 'Twas the Ninth! Oh, the
blood

Is choking his voice! What a look of despair!
There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair
From eyes so fast glazing! Oh, my darling, my own,
My hands were both idle when you died alone!

He's dying! He's dead! Close his lids: let us go.
God's peace on his soul! If we only could know
Where our own dear one lies! My soul has turned sick!
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick?
I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are!

One might think you were nursed in the red lap of War.

He's not here! And not here? What wild hopes flash

through

My thoughts as foot deep I stand in this dread dew,

And cast up my prayer to the blue, quiet sky!
Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah, what face doth lie
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white!

Oh, God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream! My old sight

Is dimmed with these horrors: My son! Oh, my son!
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!

There, lift off your arms; let him lie on the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest!
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss

As mine to his baby touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right!
Forgive me, my daughter; I'm maddened to-night!
Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years
May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears!
Yes, take him again! Ah, don't lay your face there!
See! the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair.

Has she fainted?

Her cheek

How quiet you are!
Is as cold as his own. Say a word to me! Speak!
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure, mine is worst!

I'm afraid! I'm afraid! Alone with these dead!
Those corpses are stirring! God help my poor head!

I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home!

Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move!
Keep away from my boy! He's guarded by love!
Lullaby, lullaby: Sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep!

THE PILGRIMS.

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27

Note 11.

THE PILGRIMS.

manners, with an You will recognize

WHEN We undertake to criticise the Pilgrims, we ought first to ask ourselves the question: Where would they be to-day? Indeed, to be as good as our fathers, we must be better. Imitation is not discipleship. Thee and thou, a stationary hat, bad grammar and worse ugly coat, are not George Fox to-day. him in any one who rises from the lap of artificial life, flings away its softness, and startles you with the sight of a man. Neither do I acknowledge the right of Plymouth to the whole rock. No, the rock underlies all America; it only crops out here. It has cropped out a great many times in our history. You may recognize it always. Old Putnam stood upon it at Bunker Hill, when he said to the Yankee boys : "Don't fire till you see the whites of their eyes." Ingraham had it for ballast when he put his little sloop between two Austrian frigates, and threatened to blow them out of the water if they did not respect the flag of the United States in the case of Martin Koozta. Jefferson had it for a writing-desk when he drafted the Declaration of Independence and the "Statute of Religious Liberty" for Virginia. Lovejoy rested his musket upon it when they would not let him print his paper at Alton, and he said: "Death or free speech!" Ay! it cropped out again. Garrison had it for an imposing-stone when he looked into the faces of seventeen millions of angry men, and printed his sublime pledge, "I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard."

If I were going to raise a monument to the Pilgrims, I know where I should place it. I should place one cornerstone on the rock, and the other on that level spot where fifty of the one hundred were buried before the winter was over; but the remainder closed up shoulder to shoulder as firm, unflinching, hopeful as ever. Yes, death rather than compromise of Elizabeth. I would write on their monument two mottoes: One, "The Right is more than our

Country!" and over the graves of the fifty: "Death, rather than Compromise!"

How true it is that the Pilgrims originated no new truth! How true it is, also, that it is not truth which agitates the world! Plato in the groves of the Academy sounded on and on to the utmost depth of philosophy, but Athens was quiet. Calling around him the choicest minds of Greece, he pointed out the worthlessness of their altars and shame of public life, but Athens was quiet. It was all speculation. When Socrates walked the streets of Athens, and, questioning every-day life, struck the altar till the faith of the passer-by faltered, it came close to action; and immediately they gave him hemlock, for the city was turned upside down. What the Pilgrims gave the world was not thought, but action. Men, calling themselves thinkers, had been creeping along the Mediterranean, from headland to headland, in their timidity; the Pilgrims launched boldly out into the Atlantic and trusted God. That is the claim they have upon posterity. It was action that made them what they were.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

Note 12.

THE SPIRIT OF INQUIRY.

ON the roof of Agamemnon's palace, in Argos, a watchman sat from year to year, waiting and watching the north for the great signal of fire which should bring the glad tidings of the fall of Troy. Long years had elapsed, and lo! as it drew near morning there was a light in the sky, and the watchman cried aloud, and messengers ran abroad throughout Argos, bidding men to burn thank-offerings and incense on the altars.

More than three thousand years have rolled away since this grand and rugged and stalwart telegraphic line of light lit up the mountain-tops of the world over lands and seas, to carry the tidings of great national victory and joy.