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"Julia Rivers, why have you taken this imprudent step ?" asked Andeli, in unconcealed anger. "For your love, Lucien."

"Pshaw! for my love!" echoed he, not at all calmed by the confession.

tuous form!--what grace!--what dignity!-what beau- | sweetly in his face. That smile! it was almost irrety!-what gentleness! And the lover that hung over sistible. her, and the artist that glanced at his own penciling, were the same. That young artist! His face was intelligent and expressive, the cheeks were somewhat pale, but not so much so as the broad, snow-like forehead; the nose was slightly acquiline; the lips wore a constant smile, and the eyes were large and black, twinkling over his whole face like bright stars, and at once betraying the deep fervor of the mind, and the immortal and undying longings of the soul. It was a rare study, was the face of that young artist! Love and Ambition were never so nicely imbodied.

Love and Ambition !-the one the sultana of the heart-the other the monarch of the soul! Who has not felt their power? The warrior, in his tent, marshals them to watch upon his dreamy couch. The poet, in his garret, awakens them to glide in meditation's sparkling stream. The artist, too, feels their influence, as he portrays the fresh and beautiful colorings of his rainbow-tinted pencil. What charms, what spells, do they not steal from his passionate heart! The warrior courts them; but his sword is forgotten, when the hand that wielded it is cold. The poet woos them; but his lyre is still, when the hand that touched its chords is powerless. But the artist feels their promptings, and is deathless. His productions are seen and adored, when his body mingles with the dust, and the willow of centuries glooms above its voiceless grave, They are the golden chains that connect the present with the by-gone-and Love and Ambition are their wizard inspirers.

Lucien Andeli-for that was the artist's name-had arisen, and was striding to and fro in his studio. A gentle rap was heard at the outer door, which awoke the servant dozing there.

“Is Lucien Andeli at home?" inquired a soft voice. The servant stepped into the room, and informed his master that a flower girl, who had called twice during his absence, wished to see him.

The flower girl entered. By the dim light of a lamp, she seemed about the middle height, fair and graceful. Her dress was slight and loose-thrown carelessly over a most enchanting form. Her skin was white and transparent, and her eyes blue and languishing. "Well, my pretty girl, what do you want?" inquired the artist.

She held up a bunch of flowers.

"Ah, you wish to sell me flowers. There is a bunch in which is a rose scarce budded-so like my Meta. 1 will take that."

The girl shuddered at the mention of that name, and replied

"But do you love none other than Meta? Rumor speaks of others-Lady Julia Rivers-”

"Oh, my patroness-an artful coquet-a beautiful creature-but without soul."

The man entered here with lights, and again dissappeared. "Lucien," whispered the girl, in a low and tremulous

voice.

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"Ah! you little know the struggles I have undergone in restraining such feelings," exclaimed she, as the tears stole down her cheeks-that surest weapon of woman-"I have striven to banish you from my heart, but the impression is indelible. In my very dreams your name has been upon my lips, and your goodness always before me. Lucien, I love you!"

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Angelic creature, I prefer making love to you!" said he; "go home, and when I visit you, receive me with your brightest smiles."

"But, Meta-"

"Mention not that name, Lady Rivers,” interrupted Andeli, indignantly-"she is too pure to be thought of by you-and her very name, hallowed as it is by sweetest remembrances, must not-shall not be spoken by you."

"You terrify me. What is Meta to you, more than"

'Charles, get my carriage, and see Lady Rivers home," again interrupted her words, as the speaker hurried from her into an adjoining room. Presently he heard the carriage drive to the house--the door opened-a foot was on the step-the door closed-and away it flew.

Lucien Andeli was one of those characters very seldom to be met with in the present times. He was a dreamer, and it is perhaps better that but few such now exist. With him every thing was bright, and fresh, and joyous. Earth, with its chilling and blighting cares, was to him an unweeded paradise; for he had passed through the flowery portals, and dwelt in the land of dreams. A shadow had not dimmed the sun

shine--a falsehood had not plucked the rose-plume. The heart-the spirit

"Ever in motion--that plays Like the lightning in autumn's shadowy days," he possessed, and with them moved calmly and sweetly along, extracting from every object that met his attention a new freshness and gaiety. He lived in the golden-we in the iron age. He had not left, as it were, the bright and glowing heavens for the obscure and shadowy earth. No! He lived in the enchanting moonlight of the by-gone-when poetry was a wanderer from the heart-when music was sweeter than the song of stars. No wonder that, in the glaring daylight of the present, such as him have no abiding place. I would as soon think of beholding the brightplumed bird of paradise wandering along the dreary desert, or the rosy star of twilight shedding its beams at mid-day upon the blessed earth!

Yet with all those qualities, which had rendered him unfit to mingle with men--with all of his high and ennobling aspirations-Andeli was linked with a band of low and sordid adventurers. Revenge is not choice in its means; so that the goal is achieved, we scan not the way through which we passed to gain it. Love itself, with all of its strong and high-toned impulses,

is not stronger than the deep, unchanging, irresistible | have been fearfully avenged. I may die-the same current of revenge.

mystic and unwavering light may whiten upon my stiffened bones-but, thank heaven, they will not know of the grief that gnawed at my heart, and bid me concentrate all my thoughts of love, and hope, and ambi tion-in revenge."

That fair young artist had suffered feelings to enter his breast, that would taint the heart, as does poison, the most sparkling stream. And now that I think of it, were I a blood-thirsty monarch upon his throne, instead of a pale, sickly student, with tintless cheeks He paused in the train of his reflections. It was a and streaming eyes, I would just as quickly unfurl the fit hour for man's communion with his own heart, and "star-spangled banner of the free," or let the shout of long and calmly did that young artist do so. He freemen drown the groans of abject slaves, as permit scanned the past and the present, and as he did so, sternan arlist to mingle with my courtiers. It may be a|ly, but without a pang, did be look forward to that one queer notion, but I have always thought there's something in the profession, in the impulses that it draws forth, in the dreams that it weaves around the mind, in the revelations that it throws about the heart, that renders it averse to slavery. Is it but a dream that haunts my couch? is it but a shadow that has risen in the silence of my chamber? No! The tyrant may forge the chain, but the artist wears it not, until the high imaginings have departed from the mind's sanctuary, or the stamp of thought and soul is stolen from its inward altar.

It was Andeli who rescued Francis Armine. Not, as may be supposed by accident; but to screen the conspirators, whose proceedings hereafter, as far as concerns this narrative, shall be developed. In the popular tumult, he had turned the tide to suit their purposes, without themselves being known or suspected, as schemers against the state. The seeds of a mighty revolution had been scattered abroad by invisible hands, and Paris had witnessed, without knowing it, the rise of the curtain, which, ere it fell, might usher in one of the most fearful tragedies ever enacted upon the arena of scathed and bloody Europe-and that too, in a country where the footsteps of war had scarcely been erased, and where the tracery of blood had scarcely been dried-in France-gloomy, crushed, yet illus. trious France!

dread but fixed aim. If he faltered a moment, the bloody form of his brother would appear before him and urge him on to a deed which would sweep the murderers from the ground which they cumbered, and reinstate France in her former glories-though it would bathe her vine yards with blood, and stamp his name as a butcher of war.

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CHAPTER IV.

Hempskirke. It was the fellow, sure.
Wolfort. What are you, sirrah?

I call upon thee, and compel
Thyself to be thy proper hell!

Beggar's Bush

Byron.

She came !

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded-
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. Ibid

Paris rested in the distance, as silent as when, centuries before that time, the wanderer had passed through the wilderness from which it had sprung. The Seine was calm and serene, as the stars glittered along its motionless waters; and with outstretched arms, in its unbroken sleep, seemed sheltering the vessels that lay on its bosom. Along the shores could not even be seen the torch of the fisherman, that was wont to flash upon the tideless stream, through the dun obscurity and Andeli had left his studio-had wended through the gloom of night's solemn noon. No sound came through streets of Paris, and from where he walked, they could the immoving air from the city. Its very heart seemed scarce be seen in the perspective. All around him was to have ceased its vibrations. But a short time had becoming more and more silent and dull, and as he passed since it beat with care, and toil, and crime; it moved along, the clocks of the city struck twelve, which was now still-but the dark thoughts, the low appetites, could scarce be heard through the heavy air. The the brutal lusts, the fierce passions, yet dwelt there, to stars were still standing on high, like sentinels of Time, awaken again, refreshed and invigorated. Paris lay, and the moon was still pouring its light upon the earth. like a mighty giant, whose iron limbs, and strong Andeli gazed upon the heavens, and these were his hands, and hardened nerves, no force could tame and no thoughts--these were the memories that the hour and power withstand; but who, at the voice of nature, the place drew forth: sank quietly down to rest, and arose again to curb, or crush, or overthrow.

"Blessings on his memory. Never did the moon smile so brightly as on that remembered night. Three summers have passed since then, yet how well I remember that deed. At my father's door we sat-a shriek called our attention, and even as I turned, a minion of the tyrant plunged his poniard to my brother's heart, and disappearing, left that brother's form almost nailed to the green turf on which he lay-the blood oozing out like so much water, and the young and beautiful countenance locked in the stern pang of death. Wildly, madly, did I cry for justice-but I was scoffed and derided; and the voice of revenge that I then vowed, ascended through the silence of nature, and was recorded on the leger book of heaven. My lost but unforgotten brother, have I not kept the vowfor ere that moon smiles its last rays again, you will

The young artist whom we have thus far followed, had paused, and with feelings

"Heavy as frost and deep almost as life,"

he gazed upon the distant city, so lately the scene of strife, and now so silent; thoughts of the past and the future were fitting by him; and strange to say, that with his future, even then he linked the fortunes of him, the mysteries of whose life form the principal feature of this narrative. Stranger still, that unknown as was Francis Armine to him, the very thought of him should be accompanied with a dread and a warning. Are we not the ministers of our own fate? Is it then strange, that although the vista of the future is untrod, its shadows should rest upon the present? No, it is not

That same power which permits us not to throw back | though not pitiless. With a firm composure, Andeli the veil, sends to us dreams and omens to warn us of motioned to him to proceed. the mysteries which it conceals. We are prophets, yet of what avail is our knowledge. We approach the precipice, yet shun it not; or shunning it, still work out the destiny written for us, in unalterable characters on the book of fate.

We seek not to penetrate into secret thoughts; suffice it that actions show their import. We seek not to trace the lightning from its cloud-built home, but to show its dread effects. In its blasting and devastating path, we can behold enough of its power, without seeking the unattainable, or grasping higher than the limited faculties of earth-chained mind will permit. Sacred be the secrets of the soul! We pass from them to the thoughts which find words to speak their meaning, as passes a traveller, who has lingered a moment in the dark valley, to the unshadowed earth.

"Lucien Andeli, I wish to go and shake hands with the world again. Nay, start not, nor deem it strange. They who have stepped between me and happiness-who have changed the current of my beingwho would have trampled upon me, when I fell to their own level-must again receive me. I have shrank from their intercourse for years, and now I wish again to mingle with them. The name of Montanvers must not be forgotten-it must again be on the lips of men, who feel and dread its influence. It must again be sighed by the soft voices of your women. I have a fit resting place in yon cave-the earth my bed-the rock my pillow; yet neither so pleasant as the downy couch. My clothes are worn and ragged, and food I have not tasted for two days. I see you understand my wishes, and will meet them ?"

"Let that be forgotten with the past. You have money and friends, and must reinstate me in the world." "Must!" echoed Andeli.

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"It was a well timed blow," said Andeli, as with an "Montanvers, do you remember how and why we effort he again adverted to the events of that evening. last parted?" asked Andeli, after listening with a feel"It was a well timed blow, and it must be quickly fol-ing of contempt to his remarks. lowed-for ere the conspiracy is known, my revenge must be consummated. The hurricane has yet to come; a few drops have fallen from the overcharged cloud, heralds alone of the coming storm-and when it comes in its wrath, wo-wo, to them on whom it falls!" Forgetful of all but the feelings which had for years mastered every hope and aspiration of his younger days, he was recommencing his walk, without observing that to his incoherent exclamations he had a listener. On looking up, he beheld a dark form towering above him. The intruder is known to our readers, and a few of the neighboring peasantry, as the hermit of the cave, and had been standing near his retreat when he heard the words of Andeli. He had scarcely caught his attention, before he leaped from the rock on which he stood, and stood before the artist. His dark featured face, his long and matted beard, his gray and uncombed hair, and his dirty and ragged dress, together with his bold swaggering manner, rendered him an object of disgust. "Who dares intrude thus upon my walk?" inquired Andeli, in a menacing tone, as he drew back at the approach of the hermit, who, leaning over the artist, whispered in his ear—

Ay, must!" returned he. "If our former friendship will not influence you, know that I have that which will. You are in my power. Your schemes are open to me. Have I in vain attended your secret meetings, and heard your pleading and your advice? Have I in vain listened but now to your words, spoken, as you thought, to the winds? No! not in vain. One word, if I but speak, it consigns you and your friends to a disgraced and miserable grave. Andeli, are we or are we not friends?" Sternly did he rivet his eye upon the face of the young artist, to inquire, before words could speak it, the reception of his inquiry. They were calm and open, and now his gaze was returned as boldly and sternly as it was given.

"Andeli, hast thou forgotten Montanvers?" The young man started. The blood left his cheek, and the cold perspiration stood on his forehead. It could not be. He looked again, and almost shuddered beneath the ardent gaze that met his own. Those few words had rolled back the veil of past years, and brought to his memory one whom he had met but once since his boyhood. Again stood before him the once gifted and brilliant Montanvers-now, as his appearance indicated, the shunned and pitied, if not abhorred

outcast.

"Ha! I see you remember me," exclaimed he, not withdrawing his fixed gaze.

"I do, although you have altered much," replied Andeli.

"Yes, time has passed over me rather roughly since we met last. The world and myself, Andeli, have wrangled much. But I am wearied now, and would ask favor at your hands," said he, as he scanned, with an inquiring look, the features of his companion. He could read nothing there, for they were cold and stern,

"We are not," replied he, in a clear and fearless voice.

"Beware of my enmity."

"Beware rather of mine," returned Andeli, "and know that for the cause in which I am pledged, I fear not the interruption of one so foul as the murderer of Maria Serle."

Andeli thought rightly, that the memory of that deed would move his enemy from his purpose. It touched a chord long dormant, and thrilled upon every fibre of his frame. He attempted to smother the feeling, which only rendered it more intense. Conscience could not be stilled. It was like a stream whose waters have been stopped in their course, and which, on finding an outlet, rush impetuously forth, with a loud voice and a mighty leap. The cheek was paled-the hands were clenched, until the blood almost started from the thin, bony fingers-large, heavy drops of sweat hung about his forehead; and his eyes, now brightened and now darkened, as with partial insanity. The earth seemed to move from beneath him; he was one moment kneeling, as if at confession, and in the next he seemed to tread on air.

"Spirit of the lost! you yet hover around me," raved he. "From the early grave you rise to crush me. Your curse is yet with me. You wander forever on the wings of the air. Your flight is in the calm and in the whirlwind, and the trees bend swiftly to your foot

steps, and the winds echo to the music of your voice. Beautiful one! you are with me, through the gloomy night, and amid the sunshine of mid-day. You are there-there--there. Hush! lest I fright you. I see you as once I saw you-but even now you change, and your own blood streams over that beautiful face, and around those exquisite limbs. Ha! who did that deed? | You smile. It was these hands. Ha! ha! ha!" and with that strange and unearthly laugh he stretched forth his hands, as if grasping at something in the air, and fell to the earth.

Andeli saw him fall into that deathlike swoon, and turning, swiftly moved along. He had not walked far, ere he approached a small and neat white cottage, around whose door and windows clustered the vine and the honeysuckle, flinging at once a shade and a fragrance about the spot. A fit haunt was this for love and beauty! An angel, as it wheeled its course above the earth, might well start at meeting a place so beautiful in this dark world, and watch and protect its gentle inmates ere it again departs to the far off heavens, Before the cottage lay wide and boundless plains, that stretched to the shores of the Seine, and in its rear was the dark and still forest, and the tall mountains, whose peaks were lost in the blue of the sky-whilst closely around it, swept a bright and sparkling stream, now prattling with the pebbles, now playing with the reeds, and now dancing over its green margin, like a wild school-girl, singing gaily, as she romps along with a light heart and bright smile.

The young artist stopped, and gazed at the window; but it was not the beauteous flowers that clustered there, that caught his eye-it was not the slender twig or the green vine, bathed as they were in the moon's mystic light, that arrested and rivetted that eye to the spot. It was something fairer and brighter. It was a face lovely in charms-a form rounded into beauty by the goddess of love. Another moment, and his form no longer threw its shadow upon the grass-it was at her feet.

"Meta! my love, my life, I am with thee!" he whispered, as he arose, and twining his arm around her small waist, pressed her beating heart, that swelled beneath its snowy bosom, to his own.

And he drew her closer to him-their lips clung into a long and passionate kiss; her transparent cheek rested on his shoulder--and her bosom glowed in movements with his own. Softly to their ears was borne the voice of the prattling stream—the low musical tone of the gushing fountain--the sweet hum of myriads of insects-the bland whisper of the wandering wind, and the clear cry of the night-bird, as it wheeled its course in the perfumed air, over streams, and cots, and vineyards. It was as though nature welcomed the meeting, and sent up her voice from the silent forests and tideless streams for her young and delicate children.

Thus, on the shores of the golden Seine, sat the lovers-alas! they were not wedded! She sought not, desired not the rank from which she had fallenthe name which she had forfeited. Around him clus tered the brightening dream-alas! that it was but a dream!-of a fresh, first love. Poor child! she knew not the sin—heard not of the shame of such a passion. And he-by the world's law deemed the guiltier—in the opening of manhood, in his wanderings, had met her, and forgotten home, and kindred, and ambition, in the breath of a passionate and a guilty love.

The moon beamed brightly upon the earth, and the eternal stars looked down from their deep blue chambers; and they were clasped in quietness and sleep, and tranquil was the slumber, and profound was that sleep. They were alone upon the earth, and from its distant home, love, like an angel, descended upon the wings of night to their quiet couch.

SONNET.

TO THE MAGNOLIA GRANDIFLORA. Majestic flower! how purely beautiful

Thou art, as rising from thy bower of green,
Those dark and glossy leaves, so rich and full,

Thou standest like a high-born forest queen,
Among her maidens, clustering round so fair!
I love to watch thy sculptured form unfolding,
And look into thy depths to image there

And while the breeze sweeps o'er thee, matchless flower,
A fairy cavern; and while thus beholding,

That comes like incense from thy petal'd bower,
I breathe the perfume, delicate and strong,
Beneath that glorious tree, where deep among
My fancy roams the southern woods along,
The unsunn'd leaves thy large white flower-cups
sprung.
Washington City, July, 1938.

C. P. C.

She was very beautiful-that gentle young girl. Her cherubic features, her slight form, seemed too lovely for earth. Her face was delicate and fair-of a beauty, rather the promise of what will be, than that which is. Her features were gentle, and regular, and open. Her forehead was like a sheet of pure snow, drifted with dark and wavy locks of hair-and her cheek like a calm water, with here and there a flushed rose peeping forth; but in repose, the faintest dye betwixt the lily and the rose could not equal it. Her lips were of the clearest and softest vermilion; and when parted, displayed two rows of teeth whiter than virgin pearland then her eyes, so soft, and yet so bright. Her dress was rich, but plain; showing that exquisite form ON DREAMING THAT I HEARD A LADY in its natural and most beautiful shape. She gazed upon her lover-for such was he to her; but her heart was too full for words. She gazed in silent and speechless eloquence. Not the eloquence of the lip, for that can coin itself to honied words in times of darkest doubt-but the eloquence of the soul, when every look and action imbodies truth.

ENGAGED IN PRAYER.

Methinks I hear her breathe in prayer
A heaven-taught, pure, and holy strain:
I would my name were mentioned there-
So pure a heart asks not in vain.

LL

were ready to clothe any man with the imperial purple.

TO A BEAUTIFUL CREEK BOY, I repudiate the idea that such was for a moment their

THE EVENING BEFORE HIS EMIGRATION.

BY HENRY THOMPSON.

Lone child of the forest, thou art now on the'sward,
Where silently sleepeth its legitimate lord;
Thou art roaming thy last, o'er the tumulose earth;
O'er the graves of thy people-in the land of thy birth.
But alas! little Creek, o'er the turf of thy dead,
The foot of the stranger will intrusively tread,
When thou art an exile, far away from the foes,

intention; or that their power, had such been their design, was equal to accomplish it; and I hold both to be derogatory to the high character of a patriotic ancestry, and a reflection upon the cause their valor won. It is a misconceived attempt to heap honor upon the illustrious Washington, by an undesigned detraction from the well-earned glory of his associates. The measure of his fame is already full. He needs no accumulated honor at the expense of his companions in arms. In "the deeds of high emprise," which by him

Who have pilfered the earth where thy people repose.directed they achieved, in the defence of the liberties

Yet in majesty roam, for 'tis here thou wast born,
Although Es-ta-hat-ke* looks on thee with scorn;
And gaze, Indian boy, on the blossoming rose,

For thine eyes look their last where thy people repose.

The eagle screams o'er thee, for her eaglets have flown;
Her dark eye is on thee-bright, bright as thine own-
But the bow, little Creek, is unbent in thy hand,
Never more to be strung in this paradise land.
Thy arrows are wasted, shot away to the night-
The proud bird above thee, thou can'st not affright;
And thine eye cannot weep! 'tis a stranger to tears;
Revenge is not of thee-for few are thy years;

and support of the rights of a common country, there is glory enough for all. Whatever may be our idea of the well deserved honor and confidence in which Wash

ington was held by the army he had so often led to successful battle, we must not forget the cause for which they fought,-that all else was secondary to the one great object,-the protection of their country from invasion, and the establishment of liberty. Let us remember that that army were no mercenary soldierybut a patriot band who warred for freedom and independence. And is it to be supposed that these men, at the very moment when the object of all their hopes and all their labors was accomplished, were ready to

Yet the blood of the Creek, flowing warmly and wild, become the willing subjects of an imperial sway-to Gushes still in thy veins, aboriginal child!

And gaze while thou may'st on the blossoming rose,
For thine eyes look their last where thy people repose.

WASHINGTON,

AND THE PATRIOT ARMY.

The pleasure I took in the perusal of the sketch of the life of the late eminent judge and patriot, Jeremiah T. Chase, contained in the June No. of the Messenger, has been mingled with pain, at finding therein an incidental assertion, which, if true, is alike to be regarded as a stain upon the character of our great progenitors, and a reproach to the high and holy cause in which they so devotedly engaged.

To represent, in the most enviable light, the characters of the great and good, is a feeling spontaneous in every noble mind; but it is no unfrequent error, in striving to exalt the most worthy, to disparage subordinate merit, without whose aid even the highest individual powers and faculties had availed but little.

The halo of glory which surrounded the head of the father of his country, when he resigned the warrant of his command into the hands of that august assembly from whom he had received it, is surely not increased in splendor or extent, by the announcement that "the army, which he had just left at Newburgh," was "ready to clothe him with the imperial purple,” and that "disdaining the proudest trophies of ambition, he comes before Congress, and begs them to receive the insignia of his authority." And as one who, in common with every American, has a share in the heritage of glory which has descended from the patriots of the revolution, I deny that that army

The Creek term for "white man."

surrender the very liberty they had achieved as the price of its acquisition?

But let the documents of the day evidence the objects sought to be accomplished in the grand enterprise of the revolution, the light in which it was regarded, the spirit in which it was undertaken. Look at the commission which Washington held. " We, reposing especial confidence in your patriotism, conduct and fidelity, do, by these presents, constitute and appoint you to be General and Commander-in-Chief of the army of the United Colonies, &c. for the defence of American liberty, and for repelling every hostile invasion thereof." This was the power, these the purposes of its grant, held under the regulations and directions of Congress, and revocable at its will. And the instructions which accompanied its bestowal, like the injunction to the Roman consulate, made it his "especial care, in discharge of the great trust committed" to him, "that the liberties of America receive no detriment."

Look at the great charter of our liberties; read the detail of enormities perpetrated upon an unoffending people by Britain's king. "He has affected to render the military independent of, and superior to the civil power." Here was one grievance sought to be gotten rid of— one outrage which was no longer calmly to be endured. But did the army indeed forget the causes for which they took up arms, or were those alleged but pretence? Can it be, that at the very moment they had wrested their country from an arbitrary rule, and saved harmless from military subjugation the civil power, they, of themselves, had it in contemplation to be recreant to all their plighted vows, and place the man of their choice far above the hold or influence of the proper authorityto create an imperial dynasty upon the ruins of a regal

crown?

The revolution was accomplished. For eight long years our forefathers had nobly defended "American Liberty," and had successfully "repelled every hostile

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