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No! I would tell what 't were to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.

Isał Alas! alas!
Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once ;
And He that might the 'vantage best have took
Found out the remedy! How would you be,
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you, as you are? O, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.

Ang. Be you content, fair maid ;
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother :
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,
It should be thus with him ; - he must die to-morrow.

Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him.'
He 's not prepared for death! Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve Heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves? Good, good, my lord, bethink you :
Who is it that hath died for this offence ?
There 's many have committed it.

Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept :
Those many had not dared to do that evil,
If the first man that did the edict infringe
Had answered for his deed : now, 't is awake;
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet,
Looks in a glass, E1 that shows what future evils
(Either now, or by remissness new-conceived,
And so in progress to be hatched and born),
Are now to have no successivesi degrees,
But, where they live, to end.

Isab. Yet show some pity !

Ang. I show it most of all when I show justice;
For then I pity those I do not know,
Which a dismissed offence would after gall ;
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied :
Your brother dies to-morrow; be content.

Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence,
And he, that suffers ! 0, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant. —Could great men thunder
As Joves himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,
For every pelting, El petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder.
Merciful Heaven!
Tlou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,
Than the soft myrtle : — But man, proud man !

Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's inost assured, -
His glasso essence, - like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven
As make the angels weep.
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:
Great men may jest with saints : 't is wit in them
But, in the less, foul profanation.
That in the captain 's but a choleric word,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me?

Isab. Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself.
Go to your bosom :
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know
That 's like my brother's fault; if it confess
A natural guiltiness, such as is his,
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life. .

Ang. [Aside.]El She speaks, and 't is
Such sense, my sense breeds with it. [To her.] Fare you well

Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back.
Ang. I will bethink me. - Come again to-morrow.
Isab. Hark, how I 'll bribe you! Good, my lord, turn back
Any. How ! bribe me?

Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you,
Not with fond shěkels of the tested gold,
Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor,
As fancy values them : but with true prayers,
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there,
Ere sunrise ; prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

Ang. Well ; come to me

Isab. Heaven keep your honor safe !
Ang. Amen.



1. KNOWLEDGE and virtue, or, in other words, intellectual and moral improvement, are mainly the mind's own work. The ordinary processes of direct instruction are, at best, but means, facilities, and aids, — of immense importance, it is true, but which pres ippose in the mind to which they are applied an active, self moving coöperation. None can carry us up the hill of learning It must be done, if done, by the strain upon our own sinews by the wrenching of our own muscles, by the indomi. .

table resolution of our own wills. Without this effort on our parts, all the means of instruction which this and all other ages have devised are vain, worse than vain.

2. There is a vague notion widely prevalent that schools and ampler seminaries are able, by a power inherent in themselves, to fill the mind with learning; or that it is to be received inertly, like the influences of the atmosphere, by a mere residence at the places of instruction. But this is a sad mistake. Something, in this way, doubtless, may be effected. Something may be thus insensibly imbibed. A young person cannot pass his time, for years, in scenes like these, without catching something from the inspiration of the place. Intercourse, conversation, sympathy with his companions, will, without much voluntary effort on his part, convey some information, and mould, in some degree, the habits of his mind. But this, admitting it in its full extent, amounts to but very little. It is, moreover, too vague to be of any practical value.

3. The truth, after all, is, that the most elaborate and manifold apparātus of instruction can impart nothing of importance to the passive and inert mind. It is almost as unavailing as the warmth and light of the sun, and all the sweet influences of the heavens, shed upon the desert sands. « The schoolmaster," we are told by one, who, be it observed, is himself a prodigy of selfeducation, “ the schoolmaster is abroad.” The word has been caught up by the nations as prophetical of mighty changes. But the schoolmaster is abroad to little purpose, unless his pupils stand ready in their places to receive him with open and active minds, and to labor with him for their own benefit.

4. If all the means of education which are scattered over the world, and if all the philosophers and teachers of ancient and modern times, were to be collected together, and made to bring their combined efforts to bear upon an individual, all they could do would be to afford the opportunity of improvement. They could not give him a single valuable thought independently of his own exertion. All that could be accomplished must still be done within the little compass of his own mind; and they could not approach this by a hair's breadth nearer than access was made for them by his own coöperation. Nothing short of a miracle can teach a man anything independently of this. All that he learns is effected by self-discipline, and self-discipline is the mind's own work. We all are, under God, intellectually, the makers of ourselves.

5. Virtue, religion, as well as knowledge, must also be mainly the mind's own work. Here, too, external · means are useless, without the earnest coöperation of the individual. The usual

means of religious improvement, public r .gious instruction, public worship, the solemn and tender rites of our religion, seasons of abstraction from ordinary cares for self-intercourse, and for communion of the soul with God, are valuable, most valuable, valuable very far beyond the common estimate that is made of them, — so valuable, that they are the principal head-springs of public morals, and possex a preventive and san'ative El influence over public sentiment, which is more effective in preserving good order, good institutions, civil rights, and private welfare, than any other influences which are brought to bear upon the community.

6. But how and why are they thus valuable ? Simply and only as means and aids of personal exertion ; simply and only by being brought into contact with the minds and hearts of men. Unless this is done, religious meetings and services and rites are a mockery. Worse, even, than this; they are a perversion of those overtures of mercy, and those means of improvement, which a gracious God has vouchsa fed, to raise us from a mere earthly life, and make us partakers of a divine nature. What is prayer to him who does not pray? What is religious instruction to the vain, the frivolous, the indifferent, the preöccupied and fore. closed mind? What is the keeping of holy time to him, who, while he is ostensibly present at places of social worship, has yet left his thoughts and affections behind, to hold companionship with his business or his pleasures ? Alas! nothing. It is but as the vain oblations, the pageantry, and sacrifices of a darker age, without the excuse of ignorance to be pleaded in palliation. Under God, and by those spiritual aids which are ever vouchsafed in exact proportion to our endeavors to obtain them (how gracious and glorious is this truth !), we are morally and religiously, as well as intellectually, the makers of ourselves.


CLII. — FULTON'S FIRST STEAMBOAT. 1. It was in reference to the astonishing impulse given to mechanical pursuits, that Dr. Darwin, more than forty years ago, broke out in strains equally remarkable for their poetical enthusiasm and prophetic truth, and predicted the future triumph of the steam-engine :

“ Soon shall thy arm, unconquered steam, atar

Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car ;

Or on wide waving wing expanded bear
The flying chariot through the fields of air, –
Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above,
Shall wave their futtering kerchiefs as they move,
Or warrior bands alarm the gaping crowd,
And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud.”

2. What would he have said, if he had but lived to witness the immortal invention of Fulton, El which seems almost to move in the air, and to fly on the wings of the wind? And yět how slowly did this enterprise obtain the public favor! I myself have heard the illustrious inventor relate, in an animated and affecting manner, the history of his labors and discouragements. When, said he, I was building my first steamboat at New York, tho project was viewed by the public either with indifference or with contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, wero civil, but they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full force of the lamentation of the poet,

“ Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land,

All shun, none aid you, and few understand.”

3. As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the buildingyard, while my boat was in progress, I have often loitered un. known near the idle groups of strangers, gathering in little cir. cles, and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, or sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh often rose at my expense; the dry jest; the wise calculation of losses and expenditures ; the dull but endless repetition of “ the Fulton Folly.” Never did a sin. gle encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path. Silence itself was but politeness veiling its doubts, or hiding its reproaches.

4. At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be put into operation. To me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. I invited many friends to go on board to witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest that they did it with reluctance, fearing to be the partners of my mortification, and not of my triumph. I was well aware that, in my case, there were many reasons to doubt of my own success. The machinery was new and ill made; many parts of it were constructed by mechanics unaccustomed to such work; and unexpected difficulties might reasonably be presumed to present themselves from other causes. The moment arrived in which the word was to be given for the vessel to move My friends were

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