of the behavior towards him in every respect, but particularly in this, in the strongest terms of manly gratitude.

In one of the visits I made to him, said he, "There is only one thing that disturbs my tranquillity. Sir Henry Clinton has been too good to me; he has been lavish of his kindness. I am bound to him by too many obligations, and love him too well, to bear the thought that he should reproach himself, or that others should reproach him, on the supposition of my having conceived myself obliged, by his instructions, to run the risk I did. I would not, for the world, leave a sting in his mind that should embitter his future days." He could scarce finish the sentence, bursting into tears, in spite of his efforts to suppress them; and with difficulty collected himself enough afterward to add: "I wish to be permitted to assure him I did not act under this impression, but submitted to a necessity imposed upon me, as contrary to my own inclination as to his orders."

When his sentence was announced to him, he remarked, that since it was his lot to die, there was still a choice in the mode which would make a material difference in his feelings; and he would be happy, if possible, to be indulged with a professional death. He made a second application by letter, in concise but persuasive terms. It was thought this indulgence, being incompatible with the customs of war, could not be granted; and it was therefore determined, in both cases, to evade an answer, to spare him the sensations which a certain knowledge of the mode would inflict.

In going to the place of execution, he bowed familiarly, as he went along, to all those with whom he had been acquainted in his confinement. A smile of complacency expressed the serene fortitude of his mind. Arrived at the fatal spot, he asked, with some emotion, "Must I, then, die in this manner?" He was told it had been unavoidable. "I am reconciled to my fate," said he, "but not to the mode." Soon, however, recollecting himself, he added, "It will be but a momentary pang;" and, springing upon the cart, performed the last offices to himself with a composure that excited the admiration and melted the hearts of the beholders.

Upon being told the final moment was at hand, and asked if

he had anything to say, he answered, "Nothing, but to request you will witness to the world, that I die like a brave man." Among the extraordinary circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his enemies, he died universally esteemed, and universally regretted.

WILLIAM WIRT. 1772-1834.

Mr. Wirt was a native of Maryland. He was a friend of Jefferson and Madison, and was familiar with other celebrated men of his time. He chose the profession of law, and at the trial of Aaron Burr, for treason, was engaged by President Jefferson to assist the Attorney-General of the United States. His speech, on that occasion, which occupied four hours, is considered the most eloquent of any one made during the trial. He resided for many years in Richmond, Va.; but on being appointed Attorney-General of the United States, he removed to Washington, after which he went to Baltimore, where he ended his days. He had a great fondness for literature, and was the author of Essays contained in The British Spy and The Old Bachelor, and also of a Life of Patrick Henry.

[From the Speech on the Trial of Burr.]

WHO IS BLANNERHASSET?

WHO is Blannerhasset? A native of Ireland, a man of letters, who fled from the storms in his own country to find quiet in ours. His history shows that war is not the natural element of his mind. If it had been, he never would have exchanged Ireland for America. So far is an army from furnishing the society natural and proper to Mr. Blannerhasset's character, that, on his arrival in America, he retired even from the Atlantic states, and sought quiet and solitude in the bosom of our forests. But he carried with him taste, and science, and wealth; and lo, the desert smiled! Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates it with every embellishment of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shenstone might have envied, blooms around him. Music, that might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs, is his. An extensive library spreads its treasures before him. A philosophical apparatus offers to him all the secret mysteries of nature. Peace, tranquillity.and innocence, shed their mingled

delights around him. And, to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment which can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made him the father of several children. The evidence would convince you that this is but a faint picture of the real life. In the midst of all this peace, this innocent simplicity, and this tranquillity, — this feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the heart, the destroyer comes; he comes, to change this paradise into a hell. Yet the flowers do not wither at his approach. No monitory shuddering through the bosom of their unfortunate possessor warns him of the ruin that is coming upon him. A stranger presents himself. Introduced to their civilities by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon finds his way to their hearts by the dignity and elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his conversation, and the seductive and fascinating power of his address. The conquest was not difficult. Innocence is ever simple and credulous. Conscious of no design itself, it suspects none in others. It wears no guard before its breast. Every door, and portal, and avenue, is thrown open, and all who choose it enter. Such was the state of Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers. The poisoner, in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open and unpractised heart of the unfortunate Blannerhasset, found but little difficulty in changing the native character of that heart, and the objects of its affection. By degrees, he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition. He breathes into it the fire of his own courage; a daring and desperate thirst for glory; and ardor panting for great enterprises, for all the storm, and bustle, and hurricane of life. In a short time, the whole man is changed, and every object of his former delight is relinquished. No more he enjoys the tranquil scene; it has become flat and insipid to his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and crucible are thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes its fragrance upon the air in vain; he likes it not. His ear no longer drinks the rich melody of music; it longs for the trumpet's clangor and the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet, no longer affects him; and the angel smile of his wife, which

hitherto touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now unseen and unfelt. Greater objects have taken possession of his soul. His imagination has been dazzled with visions of diadems, of stars and garters, and titles of nobility. He has been taught to burn with restless emulation at the names of great heroes and conquerors. His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse into a wilderness; and, in a few months, we find the tender partner of his bosom, whom he lately "permitted not the winds of summer to visit too roughly," we find her shivering at midnight on the winter banks of the Ohio, and mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell.

Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest and his happiness, thus seduced from the paths of innocence and peace, thus confounded in the toils that were deliberately spread for him, and overwhelmed by the mastering spirit and genius of another, this man, thus ruined and undone, and made to play a subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt and treason, this man is to be called the principal offender, while he by whom he was thus plunged into misery is comparatively innocent, a mere accessary! Is this reason? Is it law? Is it humanity? Sir, neither the human heart nor the human understanding will bear a perversion so monstrous and absurd! so shocking to the soul! so revolting to reason! Let Aaron Burr, then, not shrink from the high destination which he has courted; and, having already ruined Blannerhasset in fortune, character, and happiness forever, let him not attempt to finish the tragedy by thrusting that ill-fated man between himself and punishment!

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. 1779—.

Mr. Paulding was born upon the Hudson, but he has resided mostly in the city of New York. Affluent circumstances rendered it unnecessary that he should apply himself to any professional business, and left him at leisure for literary pursuits. Under President Van Buren he held the office of Secretary of the Navy. His writings are of a highly national character, and are also distinguished for their satire and quaint humor. They consist of Essays, Novels, Stories and other writings, and in all amount to about thirty volumes.

[From "John Bull and Brother Jonathan."]

THE QUARREL OF SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON. JOHN BULL was a choleric old fellow, who held a good manor in the middle of a great mill-pond, and which, by reason of its being quite surrounded by water, was generally called Bullock Island. Bull was an ingenious man-an exceedingly good blacksmith, a dexterous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot-baker, besides. He also brewed capital porter, ale and small beer, and was, in fact, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and good at each. In addition to these, he was a hearty fellow, an excellent bottle companion, and passably honest, as times go.

But what tarnished all these qualities was a quarrelsome, overbearing disposition, which was always getting him into some scrape or other. The truth is, he never heard of a quarrel going on among his neighbors, but his fingers itched to be in the thickest of them; so that he hardly ever was seen without a broken head, a black eye, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire Bull, as he was commonly called by the country people, his neighbors — one of those odd, testy, grumbling, boasting old codgers, that never get credit for what they are, because they are always pretending to be what they, are not.

The squire was as tight a hand to deal with in doors as out; sometimes treating his family as if they were not the same flesh and blood, when they happened to differ with him in certain matters. One day, he got into a dispute with his youngest son, Jonathan, who was familiarly called Brother Jonathan, about whether churches ought to be called churches or meeting-houses, and whether steeples were not an abomination. The squire, either having the worst of the argument, or being naturally impatient of contradiction, I can't tell which, fell into a great passion, and swore he would physic such notions out of the boy's noddle. So he went to some of his doctors, and got them to draw up a prescription, made up of thirty-nine different articles, many of them bitter enough to some palates. This he tried to make Jonathan swallow; and finding he made villanous wry faces, and would not do it, fell upon him, and beat him like fury. After this, he made the house so disagreeable to him, that Jona