God works for all. Ye cannot hem the hope of being free Out from the land of bondage 'tis decreed our slaves shall go, If we are blind, their exodus, like Israel's of yore, Through a Red Sea is doom'd to be, whose surges are of gore. 'Tis ours to save our brethren, with peace and love to win TO J. R. GIDDINGS.1 Giddings, far rougher names than thine have grown And thou shalt aye be honorably known As one who bravely used his tongue and pen As best befits a freeman,-even for those To whom our Law's unblushing front denies A right to plead against the life-long woes Which are the Negro's glimpse of Freedom's skies: Alone may do securely; every hour The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night Lose somewhat of their long-usurpéd power, And Freedom's lightest word can make them shiver Joshua R. Giddings, now (1858) the oldest member of the United States House of Representatives, was born in Athens, Bradford County, Pennsylvania, on the 6th of October, 1795. While in his infancy, his father removed to Canandaigua, New York, and remained there till 1806, when he removed to Ashtabula County, Ohio. Having a strong taste for literature, he determined to enter professional life; and by constant labor and self-denying efforts he was enabled to present himself for admission to the bar in 1820. His practice soon became extensive. In a few years, he was elected to the Legislature of his own State, and in 1838 to a seat in the United States House of Representatives. In February, 1838, he made his first anti-slavery speech in Congress. In 1842, he was censured by the House of Representatives for introducing anti-slavery resolutions. He at once resigned, returned home, appealed to his constituents, and in five weeks was returned by an overwhelming majority. There he has remained ever since, a most vigilant and faithful watchman on the watch-tower of liberty. His Congressional specches have been published in a handsome volume of 511 pages,—a monument to his courage and faithfulness to truth more enduring than granite or marble. In 1858, he published an historical work of deep interest, and designed to tell, not conceal, the truth, entitled, The Exiles of Florida: or the Crimes committed by our Government against the Maroons, who fled from South Carolina and other Shave States, seeking Protection under Spanish Laws.- : FREEDOM.1 Men whose boast it is that ye Women! who shall one day bear Deeds to make the roused blood rush Is true Freedom but to break They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three. MARIA LOWELL, 1821-1853. MARIA WHITE, the daughter of an opulent citizen of Watertown, Massachusetts, was born July 8, 1821. In December, 1844, she was married to James Russell Lowell, and died on the 22d of October, 1853. In 1855, her husband had a volume of her poetry privately printed, of the character of which some judgment may be formed from the following beautiful and touching lines addressed to a friend after the loss of a child. Sung at the Anti-Slavery Picnic in Dedham, on the anniversary of West India Emancipation, August 1, 1843. THE ALPINE SHEEP. When on my ear your loss was knell'd, And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be a healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief. After our child's untroubled breath And friends came round, with us to weep The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams slide. But naught can tempt the timid things Till in his arms his lambs he takes, And in these pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. This parable, by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south wind free A blissful vision through the night Holding our little lamb asleep, While, like the murmur of the sea, EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. THIS instructive and admired essayist was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, cn the 8th of March, 1819. His father, Matthew Whipple, dying while the son was in his infancy, his widow removed to Salem; and there young Edwin was educated at the English High School. When he was but fourteen years of ago, he published articles in the newspaper-press at Salem, and at fifteen became clerk of the Bank of General Interest in that city. When he was eighteen years of age, he went to Boston, where he entered a large banking-house, as clerk, but was soon after appointed Superintendent of the Merchants' Exchange News-Room. Such a position would hardly seem compatible with literary pursuits; and yet but few college-graduates have been as distinguished for articles of beautiful, just, and vigorous criticism, in our best reviews, as Mr. Whipple. But, besides his influence as a writer, he has appeared before the public, in most of our Northern States, as a lecturer of uncommon power and attractiveness, and has often been invited to address the literary societies of various colleges,-Brown, Dartmouth, Amherst, and the New York University. In 1850, the city authorities of Boston elected him to deliver before them the Fourth of July oration. Two collections of his writings have been published by Ticknor & Fields, namely, Essays and Reviews, in two volumes; and Lectures on Subjects connected with Literature and Life; and it would be hard to find in English or American literature three other volumes more instructive for their matter, or more captivating for their style. THE POWER OF WORDS. Words are most effective when arranged in that order which is called style. The great secret of a good style, we are told, is to have proper words in proper places. To marshal one's verbal battalions in such order that they may bear at once upon all quarters of a subject, is certainly a great art. This is done in different ways. Swift, Temple, Addison, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, Burke, are all great generals in the discipline of their verbal armies and the conduct of their paper wars. Each has a system of tactics of his own, and excels in the use of some particular weapon. The tread of Johnson's style is heavy and sonorous, resembling that of an elephant or a mail-clad warrior. He is fond of levelling an obstacle by a polysyllabic battering-ram. Burke's words are continually practising the broadsword exercise, and sweeping down adversaries with every stroke. Arbuthnot "plays his weapon like a tongue of flame." Addison draws up his light infantry in orderly array, and marches through sentence after sentence without having his ranks disordered or his line broken. Luther is different. His words are "half battles;" "his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to cleave into the very heart of the matter." Gibbon's legions are heavily armed, and march with precision and dignity to the music of their own tramp. They are splendidly equipped, but a nice eye can discern a little rust beneath their fine apparel, and there are sutlers in his camp who lie, cog, and talk gross obscenity. Macaulay, brisk, lively, keen, and energetic, runs his thought rapidly through his sentence, and kicks out of the way every word which obstructs his passage. He reins in his steed only when he has reached his goal, and then does it with such celerity that he is nearly thrown backwards by the suddenness of his stoppage. Gifford's words are moss-troopers, that waylay innocent travellers and murder them for hire. Jeffrey is a fine "lance," with a sort of Arab swiftness in his movement, and runs an iron-clad horseman through the eye before he has had time to close his helmet. John Wilson's camp is a disorganized mass, who might do effectual service under better discipline, but who, under his lead, are suffered to carry on a rambling and predatory warfare, and disgrace their general by flagitious excesses. Sometimes they steal, sometimes swear, sometimes drink, and sometimes pray. Swift's words are porcupines' quills, which he throws with unerring aim at whoever approaches his lair. All of Ebenezer Elliot's words are gifted with huge fists, to pommel and bruise. Chatham and Mirabeau throw hot shot into their opponents' magazines. Talfourd's forces are orderly and disciplined, and march to the music of the Dorian flute; those of Keats keep time to the tones of the pipe of Phoebus; and the hard, harsh-featured battalions of Maginn are always preceded by a brass band. Hallam's word infantry can do much execution when they are not in each others' way. Pope's phrases are either daggers or rapiers. Willis's words are often tipsy with the champagne of the fancy, but even when they reel and stagger they keep the line of grace and beauty, and, though scattered at first by a fierce onset from graver cohorts, soon reunite without wound or loss. John Neal's forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at every thing. They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being spread over too much ground. Everett's weapons are ever kept in good order, and shine well in the sun; but they are little calculated for warfare, and rarely kill when they strike. Webster's words are thunderbolts, which sometimes miss the Titans at whom they are hurled, but always leave enduring marks when they strike. Hazlitt's verbal army is some |