notwithstanding, been hitherto preserved? Granted. But they have been preserved under, and in conjunction with, all the piety and moderation of the Puritans; all the affection of colonies from a common country, and in a strange land; all the confidence of infant states; all the bonds that a common enemy have cast upon the nation; together with all the regard that sons have had for the memory of their fathers who fought and bled for them. Take away from our institutions all the mighty power of these influences-which are only accidental-and their weakness will be seen and felt. Man will learn that there is no magic power, no virtue, no considerative principle in the mere name or form of government. Its efficacy must be derived from another source, from the mighty power of truth, of letters, and of religion.

Other systems of government may be preserved and perpetuated as well, and perhaps some even better, under the reign of ignorance and superstition, than if the minds of the people were cultivated and stored with knowledge. But not so with Republicanism. When the states are divided and subdivided, and political rights and privileges are equally distributed and enjoyed, it is very natural that strong excitement, bordering upon violence, be produced among the people. Whole communities are often thrown into fierce commotion, and all the feelings and passions of men are kindled, so that society seems shaken to the very center, during the discussion of some agitating question, or the adjustment of conflicting interests.

Our only hope, in such a state of things, is in the overpowering influence of religious sentiment and an elevated style of letters. In the efficacy of the former, we have much confidence. Yet it is not sufficient of itself. It must be clad in garments of knowledge; it must be equipped with weapons of art; it must be adorned with the refinement and beauty of learning. And when the day of decline in letters in this country shall come, and the American citizen shall attempt to exercise the privileges of the elective franchise, unguided by the light of wisdom, and ungoverned by the genial influence of sound learning, we may rest assured, that all which we now admire and love and boast of in our political institutions, will be sacrificed to promote the selfish purposes of designing men and aspiring demagogues. The bold and daring spirit of our people, once emancipated from the moral restraints of wisdom, intelligence, and virtue; once set free from that power of reason and understanding, that springs only from a state of high intellectual culture, could no more be controlled than the tornado that spreads ruin and devastation over the face of the earth. The diversities of feeling, and the fermentations of prejudice and antipathy, and the angry passions

of wayward and selfish politicians, would become terrible indeed.

In conclusion, then, if we would refute the disgraceful charges of other nations, that we have no literature of our own, or at best, but a stinted and despicable one; if we would elevate our intellectual standard, and quicken the moral and mental energies of the people to engage in the loftier pursuits of truth and letters; if we would lay a foundation, on which may be reared a literary superstructure, that, like our political, in point of beauty, excellence, and glory, shall equal, if not surpass that of every other nation-England herself not excepted;-if we would have the vital interests of the nation preserved and promoted, her happiness secured, and political dignity sustained and cherished; and if we would earn the blessings, and not the curses of future generations, the approbation, and not the reproach of future travelers, then let the nation be blessed and adorned with a National University. O. P. Q.

A VOICE FROM THE SEA.

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PART I.

ANY one who has been over a week on the wide waters, well knows how slowly time passes, and how eagerly the slightest circumstance is seized upon which promises to occupy the mind for a portion, however short, of those monotonous hours which 'drag their slow length along." I had been shut up for some ten days in a packet ship, taking a passage to the sunny South, and during much of that time the weather had been such as to confine me a good deal below. I had, however, during the short time I could occasionally spend on deck, made some acquaintance with an intelligent seaman, whose name was Robert Williams, remarkable for the steadiness of his deportment and the knowledge and activity which he displayed in all the duties of his station.

On the tenth day of our voyage the weather cleared, and I was enjoying the luxury of a cigar in the calm and beautiful twilight of a summer evening. The wind was fair, and the ship, with every stitch of canvas set, was slowly moving, like a white cloud, over the placid waters. Williams, whose watch it was upon deck, was standing near me, and I soon entered into conversation with him. Our discourse happened to turn upon an incident which had occurred that morning. One of the sailors had fallen overboard, and was with difficulty rescued from a watery grave. I asked Williams if the man had been drinking, and I learned that such was suspected to have been the case.

"Your taste does not lie that way, Williams," I observed, “if I may judge from what I have seen of your conduct while I have been on board.”

"Whatever my taste may be," he replied, "I have had a powerful and melancholy warning upon the subject, sufficient to make me renounce forever the practice of intoxication."

I expressed some curiosity to learn the particulars of what he alluded to, and after casting his eyes around to see that there was nothing to require his immediate attention, he began as follows:

"I was, some years since, one of the crew of a Fairhaven whaler, bound on a two or three years' voyage. I had shipped some days previous to the time of sailing, and made several visits to the ship while the stores and equipments were being taken on board. During these visits I became acquainted with the carpenter of the vessel, and our slight intimacy ripened so rapidly

into a closer acquaintance, that, ere the vessel was hauled out and moored in the stream, we had become firm friends. I believe that what tended more than any thing else to promote and cement our friendship, was my accidentally mentioning having passed a few weeks in the village of in the vicinity of

Catskill, New York. It was his native place, and the mere mention of his home seemed to soften his feelings; and more than once I have seen tears start into his eyes at any allusion to the scenes of his childhood. He was my watchmate on the voyage out, and we passed together many of the hours of sunshine and storm, to which a sailor's life is continually exposed. Often, in generous rivalry, he and I have contended for the yardarm, the post of danger and of honor. Seldom was a reef taken in the main topsail, that one of us did not pass the earring.' He was ever foremost in danger, and where he was, (I mean not to boast or praise myself,) there was I also. It seemed as though I never could perform the duties of my station so much to my own or my officers' satisfaction, as when he was by my side; and I believe that he entertained similar feelings with regard to me-we really became necessary to each other.

"During one of the lovely evenings peculiar to tropical climates, our ship, with her tall masts covered with canvas, was gliding along steadily over the surface of the deep, very much as ours is doing now-indeed, this evening reminds me forcibly of that. The golden hues of the sun, yet dimly seen on the clouds, was giving place to the silvery rays of a nearly full moon. Eight bells had struck, and the watch had gone below. I was leaning over the bulwarks, gazing listlessly at the shadow of our ship; so clear was the night, and so smoothe the bosom of the ocean, that every spar and sail and rope, was as distinctly marked as the reality itself. Memory was busy. The bright sunny hours of childhood were passing in review before me; kind parents and friends were again by my side; feelings which I had imagined buried in oblivion were again awakened in my bosom; all, all that I had ever valued or loved, were again acting their parts on the busy scene of life;-an involuntary expression escaped my lips-my friend was near me, and my words had attracted his attention ;-in a moment he was by my side. I hastily raised my hand and brushed away a tear, but not quick enough to conceal it from him.

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What! thinking of home-so was I;-come,' said he, leading me forward, 'I have long intended to make you acquainted with some passages of my life, of which at present you are ignorant ;-it will change the current of your thoughts, and if it does not cheer you up, it will at least serve to while away an

hour of our watch. I know I shall have your sympathy, and so far I shall be a gainer by the narrative, if you are not.'

"I assured him that any thing which concerned him would interest me, and begged him to speak without reserve, assuring him of my sympathy.

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"I need not ask you,' he resumed, if you remember the little church in the village of B. No one who has been there readily forgets the white spire with its vane, rising over the tops of the old oaks, whose trunks and branches have long sheltered it from the rude blasts of winter, and whose green and ample foliage have long protected it from the scorching rays of the summer suns. Within a stone's throw of that church, and just across the brook, stands a white cottage, nearly hidden from view in the leafy month of June. It was called the Parsonage, and its neat and well-arranged garden was the pride of the villagers. Scarce a stranger stopped at the quiet little Inn, who was not invited to walk over and examine the beauties of that sweet spot, and the expressions of admiration which its situation and neatness drew from the lips of the visitor, were an ample return to his good and simple-hearted companion. That place, shipmate, was my home! For more than twenty years my venerated father had read and preached the words of life in that quiet church to his admiring and unsophisticated flock. He was their guide-their example-almost their idol. His death, which occurred about five years since, made a void in the little community which his beloved congregation thought could never again be adequately supplied. But time, that soother of nearly all sorrow, shed its calm influence over the hearts of those who had lost their best and dearest earthly friend. My mother, my sister, and myself, still continued to reside at home. My father's scanty income would not allow of his leaving any provision for his widow and children;-the only legacy he had to bequeath to us, was a spotless name. The support of the family, therefore, chiefly devolved upon me, for I had been apprenticed to a carpenter, and was now enabled to earn something at my trade. I applied myself most diligently to my business, to enable my beloved mother and sister to continue in their former comfortable, but simple mode of life, but in spite of my unremitted exertions, and the most rigid economy on their part, there were times when the loss of my father's small income was severely felt. "To the satisfaction of the whole parish, the loss of their pastor was supplied by a young man named Hreceived his theological instruction from my father. He had left the village for a year or two to complete his studies, and had just been ordained. Upon my father's death, the thoughts of the parishioners naturally reverted to him, and he received

who had