and diffithat good In Burke, gentleman; is thinker, the rgive the great , in return for ch they conceal; atique statue, the robe adapts itself to At, with all his literathis great man were, philosophical thought, im to disregard persona! of his sentiments. Even hat every where sustains r of his eloquence. A Beautiful, the only work empted, that is, the only one Deep expression of his views on the same richness of thought, hilosophy," to support the harAnd the moral the language. So remarkable a feature in his less essentially to his literary a law of nature, that the highest mands the union of the noblest well as intellect. To think is the mind; to say what you think, the courage; and both these things are Eloquence without powerful writer. parade of words; and no man can exnd vigour any thoughts but his own. of the eloquence of Rousseau, which certain analogy in its forms to that of cipal of the Jesuits' college one day in what art he had been able to write so t I thought," replied the unceremonious ing, in these few words, the bitterest satof the Jesuits, and the best explanation If, by the criticism above alluded to, it be meant that Burke, though an eloquent writer and profound thinker, was not an able practical statesman, the position may be more tenable, at least for the partisans of the school of Fox, but not, perhaps, ultimately more secure. To form correct conclusions in forms of practice, in opposition to the habitual current of one's opinions and prejudices, must be considered as the highest proof of practical ability; and this was done by Burke in regard to the French revolution. As a member of the opposition, and a uniform friend and supporter of liberal principles, he was led by all his habits of thinking, and by all his personal associations, to approve it; and to feel the same excessive desire to introduce its principles in England, which prevailed among his political friends. But he had sagacity enough to see the true interest of his country through the cloud of illusions and associations, and independence enough to proclaim his opinions, with the sacrifice of all his intimate connexions. This was at once the height of practical ability and disinterested patriotism. If he pushed his ideas to exaggeration in regard to foreign affairs, it was still the exaggeration of a system essentially correct in its domestic operation. He was rather a British than a European statesinan; but the moment was so critical at home, that he may, perhaps, be excused for not seeing quite clearly what was right abroad; and it was also not unnatural that he should carry to excess the system to which he had sacrificed his prejudices and his friendships. That his system was not correct in all its parts may be easily admitted; but I think that, in supporting it, under the circumstances, he proved great practical ability; and what system was ever adopted, in which it was not possible, thirty years after, to point out faults? By the side of these celebrated patriots arose another not less distinguished, though his name is hardly surrounded, in public opinion, with so many amiable and lofty associations; I mean the son of Chatham-" the pilot that weathered the storm!" Prejudice itself can hardly refuse to this statesman the praise of transcendent endowments, both intellectual and moral. He had the natural gift of a brilliant and easy elocution, great aptitude for despatch of business, and a singular facility in seeing through, at a glance, and developing with perfect clearness, the most intricate combinations of politics and finance. He possessed, moreover, a firmness of purpose, and a determined confidence in his own system, which finally ensured its success, and which afford, perhaps, the strongest proofs he has given of the elevation of his character. It was no secondary statesman, who could trust undauntedly to himself, when left, as it were, alone in Europe, like the tragical Medea, abandoned by all the world; and, in the confidence of his own resources, could renew his efforts with redoubled vigour. His admirers will hardly venture to ascribe to him the enlarged philosophy, or the warmth of heart, that belonged to his illustrious colleagues and rivals. The conduct of public affairs was the business of his life; and he neither knew nor cared about any other matters. He was born and bred to this; and if he was equal to it, he was also not above it. Philosophy and friendship were to him, in the language of the law, surplusage; as Calvinism was to the great Cujas-Nihil hoc ad edictum Prætoris. And though political affairs are of a higher order, and of more extensive interest, than any others, yet, when the conduct of them is pursued mechanically, like a mere professional employment, it becomes, like other professions, a matter of routine and drudgery. Thus, while Burke and Fox appear like beings of a different class, descending from superior regions to interest themselves in the welfare of mortals, Pitt presents himself to the mind as the first of mere politicians, but still as a mere politician like the rest. His eloquence is marked by the stamp of his character. It pursues a clear and rapid course, neither falling below, nor rising above, the elevation of his habitual themes. No attempt to sound the depths of thought, or soar on the wings of fancy, still less to touch the fine chords of feeling, but all a + b, an elegant solution of political problems very nearly in the manner of algebra. This profuse and interminable flow of words is not in itself either a rare or remarkable endowment. It is wholly a thing of habit, and is exercised by every village lawyer with various degrees of power and grace. Lord Londonderry, though he wants the elegant correctness of language, as well as the lofty talents of his great Surprise and Destruc MAGAWISCA paused had built for their mates a predecessor, commands an equally ready and copious elocution. In the estimate of Mr. Pitt's powers, I have not taken into account the errors of his foreign policy, because an erroneous judgment is not always a proof of inferior talents, but often only argues a false position. The misfortune of having countenanced and joined in the crusade against the French, and the merit of having resisted the spirit of revolution at home, belong alike to Pitt and to Burke. The praise of a clearer and more generous view of foreign politics is due to Fox; though his plan is not always bottomed on the most enlarged system of European relations, and although his glory is somewhat clouded by his too precipitate zeal for political novelties at home. Surprise and Destruction of the Pequod Indians.— MISS SEDGWICK. MAGAWISCA paused a few moments, sighed deeply, and then began the recital of the last acts in the tragedy of her people, the principal circumstances of which are detailed in the chronicles of the times, by the witnesses of the bloody scenes. "You know," she said, "our fortress-homes were on the level summit of a hill. Thence we could see, as far as the eye could stretch, our hunting-grounds, and our gardens, which lay beneath us on the borders of a stream that glided around our hill, and so near to it, that in the still nights we could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams were encompassed with a palisade, formed of young trees, and branches interwoven and sharply pointed. No enemy's foot had ever approached this nest, which the eagles of the tribe had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus and my father were both away on that dreadful night. They had called a council of our chiefs, and old men; our young men had been out in their canoes, and, when they returned, they had danced and feasted, and were now in deep sleep. My mother was in her hut with her children, not sleeping, for my brother Samoset had lingered behind his companions, and had not yet returned from the water-sport. The warning spirit, that ever keeps its station at a mother's pil low, whispered that some evil was near; and my mother, bidding me lie still with the little ones, went forth in quest of my brother. "All the servants of the Great Spirit spoke to my mother's ear and eye of danger and death. The moon, as she sunk behind the hills, appeared a ball of fire; strange lights darted through the air; to my mother's eye they seemed fiery arrows; to her ear the air was filled with deathsighs. "She had passed the palisade, and was descending the hill, when she met old Cushmakin. "Do you know aught of my boy?" she asked. "Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions; he returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be trodden by the strong-limbed and light-footed." "My boy is safe," said my mother; "then tell me, for thou art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future, tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe ?" She then described the omens she had seen. "I know not," said Cushmakin; "of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all is black there, as before those eyes, that the arrows of death have pierced; but tell me, Monoco, what see you now in the fields of heaven?" "Oh, now," said my mother, "I see nothing but the blue depths and the watching stars. The spirits of the air have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like an infant's breath. The water-spirits are rising, and will soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe." "The boy sleeps safely," muttered the old man, "" and I have listened to the idle fear of a doating mother." 66 'I come not of a fearful race," said my mother. Nay, that I did not mean," replied Cushmakin; "but the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe." The night was far spent, and my mother bade him go home with her, for our powwows have always a mat in the wigwam of their chief. Nay,” ," he said, "the day is near, and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun." It seemed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of the old man's soul, and he saw again the flushed hills, and the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize, and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just pass ing the little gate of the palisade, when the old man's dog sprang from him with a fearful bark. A rushing sound was heard. "Owanox! Owanox! (the English! the English!") cried Cushmakin. My mother joined her voice to his, and in an instant the cry of alarm spread through the wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire." "Was it so sudden? Did they so rush on sleeping women and children?" asked Everell, who was unconsciously lending all his interest to the party of the narrator. "Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor Wequash; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shielded the captive English maidens he who had eaten from my father's dish, and slept on his mat. They were flanked by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the sight of our tribe-who were pale as white men at the thought of Sassacus, and so feared him that, when his name was spoken, they were like an unstrung bow, and they said, He is all one God-no man can kill him.' These cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack." "Then," said Everell," as I have heard, our people had all the honour of the fight?" "Honour! was it, Everell?-ye shall hear. Our warriors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought as if each man had a hundred lives, and would give each and all to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray, even now, rings in my ears! Those fearful guns, that we had never heard before-the shouts of your people— our own battle-yell-the piteous cries of the little children --the groans of our mothers, and, oh! worse-worse than all-the silence of those that could not speak.-The English fell back; they were driven to the palisade, some beyond it, when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led the way to my mother's. Samoset, the noble boy, defended the entrance with a princelike courage, till they struck him down; prostrate and bleeding, he again bent his bow, and had taken deadly aim at the English leader, when a sabre-blow severed his bow-string. Then was taken from our hearth-stone, where the English had been so often |