There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

CLXVI. - SPEECH ON THE TRIAL OF A MURDERER.
FROM WEBSTER.

1. AGAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the topprobrium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern, that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their tenormous crime at the bar of public justice.

2. This is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent any where; certainly none in our New England history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any lion-like temptation upon their virtue, overcoming it before resistance could begin. Nor did they do the deed to glut savage vengeance, or +satiate long-settled and deadly hate. It was a cool, calculating, money-making murder. It was all "hire and salary, and not revenge." It was the weighing of money against life; the counting out of so many pieces of silver against so many ounces of blood.

3. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of butcherly murder for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it, as it has been exhibited in an example, where such example was least to have been looked for, in the very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the grim +visage of +Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the blood-shot eye emitting livid fires of malice; let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless +demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of

human nature in its depravity and in its +paroxysm of crime, as an infernal nature, a fiend in the ordinary display and +development of his character.

4. The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the +destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet; the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The +assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given! and the victim passes without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!

5. It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet +plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart; and replaces it again over the wounds of the +poniard! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! He feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe!

6. Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as in the splendor of noon; such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that

"murder will out." True it is, that Providence hath so tordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding men's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle, at the slightest circumstance, into a blaze of discovery.

7. Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself, or rather it feels an irresistible impulse to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, which it does not acknowledge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy nor assistance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the murderer possesses, soon comes to possess him; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding +disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed; there is no refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession.

CLXVII. - FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

FROM SHAKSPEARE.

Wolsey. FAREWELL, a long farewell to all my greatness;
This is the state of man: to-day, he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;

The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost,
And,-when he thinks, good, easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening-tnips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little, wanton boys, that swim on bladders,
These many summers, in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain +pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart now open'd. O, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' +favors!
There are betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That aspect sweet of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have,
And when he falls, he falls like +Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter CROMWELL amazedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

At

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. What! *amazed

my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder,

A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your grace?

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly +dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy,-too much honor:
O, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden,

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure* with the king.

Here used for disgrace.

Wol. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden:

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice

For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
+Install❜d Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed!

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in public, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell, The king has gone beyond me: all my glories

In that one woman I have lost forever:

No sun shall ever tusher forth mine honors,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king;

That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
What and how true thou art: he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him,

(I know his noble nature,) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish, too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom. O, my lord,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord;
The king shall have my service, but my prayers
Forever and forever shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,