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VOICES FROM THE GRAVES.
a shout from some sleeping warrior? or an "Ave Maria " from some crusader monk? If we should stay here until midnight -the hour when spirits haunt these halls of the dead, if they ever haunt them-might we not hear the sound of revelry where the ashes of Harry of Monmouth are laid; and a hollow voice calling out through the stillness of night," Sweet Hal?" Around the tomb of " Queen Bess," should we not hear the flattery of gallant courtiers, and the preparations of the stage; the voices of Raleigh, and Burleigh, and Essex, and Leicester, and the notes of the sweet bard of Avon, sounding melodiously over all; or the plaintive sorrow of poor Mary Stuart? Might we not hear from some part of the Abbey, a faint voice, as if it came from" the spirit land?"
Yes!-do these dead ever waken or walk? The battle-axe has fallen from the strong hand of the Saxon and the Norman, and they rest in stillness together. Genius, which lived in sorrow and died in want, here sleeps as proudly as royalty. All is silence; but here "silence is greater than speech."
This is the great treasure-house of England. If every record on earth besides were blotted out, and the memory of the living should fade away, the stranger could still in Westminster Abbey write the history of the past; for England's records are here; from the rude and bloody escutcheons of the ancient Briton, to the ensigns of Norman chivalry; and from these to admiralty stars, and civic honors. The changes which civilization has made in its progress through the world, have left their impressions upon these stones and marbles. On the monument where each great man rests, his age has uttered its language; and among such numbers of the dead, there is the language of many ages. England speaks from its barbarity in the far-off time, before the day-spring of embellishing Art-its revolutions, with their earnest struggles to leave the past and reach the future—while the later shrines breathe the spirit of England's newest civilization.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY TO THE SCHOLAR,
ACH generation has laid some of its illustrious ones here; and it is no wonder that there is not a spot to which an Englishman turns his eye with so much pride, as to Westminster Abbey; nor a spot the traveler so well loves to visit.
One cannot but feel both gratitude and indignation here: gratitude for every noble effort in behalf of humanity, civilization, liberty and truth, made by these sleepers; indignation at every base deed, every effort to quench the light of science or destroy freedom of thought; every outrage inflicted upon man; and every blow aimed against liberty by the oppressors of the
There is not a great author here who did not write for us; not a man of science who did not investigate truth for us; we have received advantage from every hour of toil that ever made these good and great men weary. A wanderer from the most distant and barbarous nation on earth, cannot come here without finding the graves of his benefactors. Those who love science and truth, and long for the day when perfect freedom of thought and action shall be the common heritage of man, will feel grateful, as they stand under these arches, for all the struggles, and all the trials to enlighten and emancipate the world, which the great, who here rest from their labors, have so nobly endured.
And, above all, the scholar, who has passed his best years in study, will here find the graves of his Teachers. He has long worshipped their genius; he has gathered inspiration and truth from their writings; they have made his solitary hours, which to other men are a dreary waste, like the magical gardens of Armida," whose enchantments arose amid solitude, and whose solitude was everywhere among those enchantments." The scholar may wish to shed his tears alone, but he cannot stand by the graves of his masters in Westminster Abbey without weeping they are tears of love and gratitude.
"ENGLISH GOVERNMENT IN IRELAND.-During the dreadful period or four hundred years, the laws of the English Government of Ireland did not punish the murder of one man of Irish blood as a crime.”— Sir James Macintosh.
"The stranger shall hear thy lament o'er his plains,
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Shall pause o'er the songs of their captives, and weep."
"In the mountains of the parish of Cong, when the potatoes fail them, they bleed their cattle and eat the boiled blood, sometimes mixed with meal, but often without it."-O'Connell.
"Grattan declared that he had watched at the cradle of Ireland, and followed her hearse. He is reckoned among the illustrious dead. I live to sound THE TRUMPET FOR HER RESURRECTION."-O'Connell.
"The Sans-potatoe Irishman is of the self same stuff as the finest Lord Lieutenant! Not an individual Sans-potatoe human scarecrow, but had a life given to him out of heaven, with eternities depending on it: for once and no second time-with immensity in him, over him, and round him with feelings that a Shakspeare's speech could not utter: with desires illimitable as the autocrat of all the Russias.”—Carlyle.
IRELAND-HER WOES AND STRUGGLES UN
DER ENGLISH OPPRESSION.
RELAND cannot be mentioned in connection with England, without striking a sympathetic chord in the heart of every patriot and Christian. Her history is unique. Possessing an indomitable valor, kindling at the first blow of oppression, and striking for freedom in almost every generation, she is still the creature of England's caprices. But bowed and dishonored though she be, she is Ireland still. She has fallen, but not forever. She can be, she will be regenerated. Her spirit is as untamed and excitable as ever. The apathy and submission of slaves, which chills the hope of freedom, is not on her. Like a brave man, she still struggles manfully with her destiny. She also has an existence as a Nation. She has her universities and her literature. She is still the "Emerald Isle of the Ocean." An air of romance and chivalry is around her. The traditionary tales that live in her literature invest her history with heroic beauty. But she has no need of these. Real heroes -the O'Neills, the O'Briens, and the Emmets, will be remem. bered as long as self-denying patriotism and unconquerable valor are honored among men. In every department of literature she still takes her place. Where is the wreath her shamrock does not adorn? Where the muse that has not visited her hills? Her harp has ever kindled the soul of the warrior, and soothed the sorrows of the broken-hearted. It has sounded every strain that can move the human heart to greatness or to love. Whatever vices may stain her people, they are free from the crime of voluntary servitude. The Irishman is the man