guard. The almost utter impracticability of receiving, a second time, the boon which has been once accorded to him, is his voice of warning. Thus stimulated, thus guarded, thus warned, he enters upon his new career. If 5 in this world of trial, which we have divested of its original beauty and loveliness, any man may be delivered from temptation, or enabled to resist it by merely human means, this man is secure. The path of duty, of uprightness, of honesty, which it is the best interest of all to pursue, is 10 that from which he is without any conceivable motive to wander.

And the insolvent, Mr. President. what is his condition? He, too, has surrendered his all, at least, all which he dare openly claim; and for what? To purchase exemp15 tion from imprisonment, or the privilege of departing beyond prison bounds. He breathes the free air of heaven, but not as a free man. He is still the "doomed slave" of his creditor. The fruits of his labor belong to that creditor, and can only be withheld from him by fraud. The 20 necessities of a helpless family, appeal to him. The eagle eye of his creditor is upon him. He looks upon that creditor as his enemy. If he be merciless, he is indeed his enemy, the enemy of those, who are dearer to him than life, whom he is bound to protect, even at the sacrifice of 25 life itself. What then? As an enemy, he fences himself against that creditor. He resorts to fraudulent conveyances, to secret trusts, to a regular system of habitual deception; and his children, into whose young minds, it would have been, under more propitious circumstances, 30 his grateful task to have instilled the lessons of virtue, are trained up under the blighting influence of that system of concealment, to which they are indebted for the comforts and conveniences of life. Such is the actual condition of multitudes, under the operation of State insolvent laws.

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Look at the progress of this operation, and judge of its effects on public morals. The discharged insolvent escapes from his cell or his prison bounds, to the wretched hovel, which benevolence may have secured to him; for he has naught which he can claim as his own, and can acquire no40 thing, which may not be wrested from him, by his creditor. The wants of his family call him to labor, and he does labor. His earliest efforts are rewarded by the pound of beef, and the loaf of bread, with which he appeases their hunger. Even these are filched from his creditor, for the

law awards them to him. Your law did award them. But there is a public opinion, to the moral force of which, even laws must yield; and the wretched insolvent is secure in the enjoyment of these. By and by, he is enabled to pro5 vide some little comforts for his helpless wife and infant children. These must be enjoyed by stealth, or the hand of the creditor may wrest them from his grasp.

In process of time, his labors are rewarded with the means, by which he can do something more than provide 10 for the present wants of his family. He considers their dependence upon him, and his liability to be taken from them; and the desire to make some provision for the future, becomes strong, irresistible. He has no right to indulge this desire. His earnings are the property of his 15 creditor. If they are discovered, the law will give them to that creditor. In strict morality, he is bound to yield them. But nature and affection urge their own strong claims; and his wife, whose spirit has been broken by adversity, and his children, who have been reared in penury, 20 are the advocates, through whom these claims are preferred. The appeal may not be resisted. The morality which conflicts with it, becomes, in his view, cold, heartless, and unfit to be regarded. He is a man, with the affections, and with the imperfections of our common 25 nature. I spea generally. There are men who would hold fast to their integrity, under circumstances however trying. But our legislation is, as all legislation must be, based upon the rule, not the exception. And so speaking, I say, such an appeal is irresistible. The insolvent yields 30 to it; he hides his earnings; he cheats his creditors; and then, with a newly awakened spirit, labors to increase his little store.

The repetition of the fraud is more easy,-habit renders it familiar. It becomes the business of his life. There is 35 an occasional twinge of conscience, but that passes; now and then, a fear of detection, but that is quieted; till at last, all that disturbs him, is the apprehension which seizes him, perhaps on his bed of death, that the depository of his secret earnings, may be as faithless to his trust, as he 40 has been to the legal claims of his creditors. Such scenes belong to, or rather more frequently occur in, the crowded population of our great cities; more rarely beyond their limits. Speaking generally, the air of the country is too pure for them. But who doubts their existence, the fre

quent recurrence of this struggle between the claims of nature and affection, and the sterner demands of legal justice? And shall we sit here, "deliberating in cold debates," whether men shall be saved from moral wretched5 ness like this?

LESSON CLX.-EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT CHAPEL HILL.-WM. GASTON.

Deeply rooted principles of probity, confirmed habits of industry, and a determination to rely on one's own exertion, constitute the great preparation for the discharge of the duties of man, and the best security for performing 5 them with honor to one's self, and benefit to others. But it may be asked, what is there in such a life of never-ending toil, effort, and privation, to recommend it to the acceptance of the young and the gay? Those who aspire to heroic renown, may indeed make up their minds to embrace these 10 "hard doctrines;" but it may be well questioned, whether happiness is not preferable to greatness, and enjoyment more desirable than distinction. Let others, if they will, toil up "the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;" we choose rather to sport in luxurious ease and careless 15 glee, in the valley below.

It is, indeed, on those who aspire to eminence, that these injunctions are intended to be pressed with the greatest emphasis, not only because a failure in them would be more disastrous than in others, but because they are ex20 posed to greater and more numerous dangers of error. But it is a sad mistake to suppose, that they are not suited to all, and are not earnestly urged upon all, however humble their pretensions or moderate their views. Happiness, as well as greatness, enjoyment, as well as renown, have 25 no friends so sure as Integrity, Diligence and Independ

ence.

We are not placed here to waste our days in wanton riot or inglorious ease, with appetites perpetually gratified and never palled, exempted from all care and solicitude, 30 with life ever fresh, and joys ever new. He who has fitted us for our condition, and assigned to us its appropriate duties, has not left his work unfinished, and omitted to provide a penalty for the neglect of our obligations. Labor is not more the duty, than the blessing of man. Without 35 it, there is neither mental nor physical vigor, health, cheer

fulness nor animation; neither the eagerness of hope, nor the capacity to enjoy.

Every human being must have some object to engage his attention, excite his wishes, and rouse him to action, 5 or he sinks, a prey to listlessness. For want of proper occupations, see strenuous idleness resorting to a thousand expedients, the race-course, the bottle, or the gamingtable, the frivolities of fashion, the debasements of sensuality, the petty contentions of envy, the grovelling pursuits 0 of avarice, and all the various distracting agitations of vice. Call you these enjoyments? Is such the happiness which it is so dreadful to forego?

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"Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies!
A youth of folly, an old age of cares,
Young yet enervate, old yet never wise;
Vice wastes their vigor and their mind impairs.
Vain, idle, dissolute, in thoughtless ease,
Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend;
All wretched, hopeless, to the evil days,

With sorrow to the verge of life they tend;
Grieved with the present, of the past ashamed;

They live and are despised, they die, nor more are named.”

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LESSON CLXI.-THE LYRE.-MILTON WARD.

There was a lyre, 't is said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;

An angel hand its chords had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.

Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain
Than ever shell of mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.
When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell

Bright with the tears that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,
Waved lightly his soft azure wing;
What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,

The birds, that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,

Were heard not where that harp was nigh.

When the last light of fading day

Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay

While night had darkened all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,

That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swelled and died,
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,

And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled,-

In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along.
Oh! for some angel, as they passed,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shrieked,—how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm!
It loudly shrieked, but ah! in vain ;-
The savage wind more fiercely blew :
Once more, it never shrieked again,

For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,

Was dreadful, but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,

That Lyre they could not wake or warm.