The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; and Carl cried out, angrily:

"For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz fail.

"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen for the concert. Come, Franz!"

"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go and find out, and then come and tell me."

The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this year it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice shouted in his ear:

"We've got it! We're chosen—you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, and I!"

The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he worked with great industry.

One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then dying slowly away!

For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his feet, he cried:

"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be—"

He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and, after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a troubled sleep.

The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole court.

The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent. Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face:

"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it—my own little piece that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"—and, burying his head in his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief.

He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece—not Raoul's; he heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say:

"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am afraid that Raoul has won the prize."

What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform.

At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden inspiration seemed to come to him—a quick light swept across his face. He raised the violin to his shoulder and began.

The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet, and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song it was!—for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it could hardly be heard, and at last it died away.

For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of applause that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down bouquets on his head.

But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes, and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor.

When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!" It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then it all came back to him—the prize, the violin, and Raoul.

"Where is the violin?" he murmured.

"It will be here in a moment," some one said.

Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little Franz, forgive me!"

The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear Raoul, I forgive you!"—and then all the pain and bitterness in his heart against Raoul died out.

The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity, bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his hands.

And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell asleep.



SWEET AFTON

ROBERT BURNS

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills! Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills, There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below! Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by my cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays, My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.



VIOLET'S BLUE[17]

DANIEL HENRY JR.

Theme. "Violet's blue—Diddle, diddle! Lavender's green. When I am King—Diddle, diddle! You shall be Queen." "Mother Goose Melodies."

You shall have crown—Diddle, diddle! Jewels and gold, Damasks and lace—Diddle, diddle! Centuries old.

Pages behind—Diddle, diddle! Heralds before, And all the state—Diddle, diddle! Queens had of yore.

But when you're queen—Diddle, diddle! And I am king, Will your eyes shine—Diddle, diddle! Will my lips sing,

As they do now—Diddle, diddle! When we are still, Poor country-folk—Diddle, diddle! Plain Jack and Jill?

Can our hearts beat—Diddle, diddle! Our love unfold, Prisoned in pomp—Diddle, diddle! Girdled with gold?

Love thrives alone—Diddle, diddle! In open air; Where pageants are—Diddle, diddle! Love is not there.

When skies are blue—Diddle, diddle! And fields are green, I will be king—Diddle, diddle! You shall be queen.

Queen of Day-dreams—Diddle, diddle! King of No-lands, With full-filled hearts—Diddle, diddle! And empty hands.

Let others king—Diddle, diddle! And queen, who will: We're better so—Diddle, diddle! Plain Jack and Jill.

FOOTNOTE:

[17] From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., London.



TO A WATERFOWL[18]

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air— Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart:

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

FOOTNOTE:

[18] By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers.



THE WEDDING-GOWN

ETTA W. PIERCE

"Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years ago I sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe— Joe, whose wife I was to be—my lover, strong and brown, Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town. It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store, This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore; Cut in the curious style of half a century ago, With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands—my own hands shaped it so. Niece Hester, spread it on my bed—my eyes grow blind with tears; I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead years Come trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my wedding-gown— 'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town.

"Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him— The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim, And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light; The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that night. We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry; Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by. High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red, From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead. 'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way— I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day. I hung my head, he kissed me—oh, sweetest hour of life! A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife.

"But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay— The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away, Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray ranks, And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks. And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep, While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep, And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown. His schooner Nan was swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town; He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe. She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her go.

"The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seams Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower I fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour. In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and died, And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide. The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea— 'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me; And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown, The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!'

"The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn gales; With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound sails From Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers dread, From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead. Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane, With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain— The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous shocks, The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox; The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me, And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea.

"I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair; I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair, No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear, For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year; And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown For never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town.

"'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress, My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press. My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow, Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe; And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed, I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest."

She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray, And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay. It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee, The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea. A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried, "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide— Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown— It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town! And look! his Nan leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe! He beckons from her shining deck—haste, friends, for I must go. The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips; All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged ships. This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride. Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand—here—take it!" Then she died.



WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19]

S. W. GILLILAN

The icy gale that hurled the snow Against the window pane, And rattled the sash with a merry clash Used not its strength in vain; For now and then a wee flake sifted Through the loose ill-fitting frame, By the warmer breezes each was lifted All melting as they came.

The baby stood with shining eyes, Her hands upon the sill; She watched each flake and the course 'twould take, And her voice was never still. 'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?" And, "Where's all the beauty gone? What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow, When it gets in where it's warm?"

I smiled that day, but seldom now Does the thought of smiling come; A phantom shape, a bow of crape, And my sweet little child went home. O Father, "Where does the whiteness go? And whither's the beauty flown? Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow' On my cheek as I face the storm?"

Again the wild wind hurls the snow Against the frosted pane And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash, While I hear those words again. The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill Where a little mound is seen, And they cover it softly and tenderly As the grass with its cloak of green.

FOOTNOTE:

[19] By permission of the author.



TO A WILD FLOWER[20]

MAURICE THOMPSON

In the green solitudes Of the deep, shady woods Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy.

The winds of May and June Hum many a tender tune, Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place, Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face.

About thee float and glow Rare insects, hovering low, And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass, Plashing their odors on thee as they pass.

The sheen of brilliant wings Songs of shy, flitting things, The low, mysterious melodies that thrill Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill.

Oh bloom! all joy is thine, All loves around thee shine, The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee, Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly.

Oh bloom of purest glory, Flower of love's gentlest story, Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair, Forever send thy sweetness down the air!

I'll put thee in my song, With all thy joys along, At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow, And frozen ones may gently slip their snow.

FOOTNOTE:

[20] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works.



THE FATE OF ZOROASTER

F. MARION CRAWFORD



Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the king, planned the massacre of the priests of the temple and Nehushta and her servants.

Four days after the king's departure, Nehushta was wandering in the gardens as the sun was going down. Just then a strange sound echoed far off among the hills, an unearthly cry that rang high in the air and struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo and died away in short, faint pulsations of sound. She started slightly, she had never heard such a sound before. Again that strange cry rang out and echoed and died away. Her slave women gathered about her.

"What is it?" asked Nehushta.

"The war cry of the children of Anak is like that," said a little Syrian maid.

Nehushta pushed the slaves aside and fled towards the palace. The truth had flashed across her. Some armed force was collecting on the hills to descend upon the palace. But one thought filled her mind. She must find Zoroaster and warn him.

Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico. Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, lighting the great torches that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from the hills. As she entered the great hall, she heard the cry again.

"Go, my little maid, in one direction and I will go in another, and search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him."

The girl turned and ran through the halls, and Nehushta went another way upon her search. Something within her told her that she was in great danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay the terror of that cry she had heard three times from the hills. Just then the Syrian maid came running in and fell breathless at Nehushta's feet.

"Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon us—they cover the hills—they are closing every entrance—the people in the lower palace are all slain."

"Where is Zoroaster?"

"He is in the temple with the priests—by this time he is surely slain—he could know of nothing going on—fly, fly!"

"On which side are they coming?"

"From the hills, from the hills they are descending in thousands."

"Go you all to the farther window, leap down upon the balcony—it is scarce a man's height,—follow it to the end past the corner where it joins the main wall of the garden. Run along upon the wall till you find a place where you can descend. Through the gardens you can easily reach the road. Fly, and save yourselves in the darkness." But before she had half finished, the last of the slave women, mad with terror, disappeared.

"Why do you not go with the rest, my little maid?" asked Nehushta.

"I have eaten thy bread, shall I leave thee in the hour of death?"

"Go, child, I have seen thy devotion; thou must not perish."

But the Syrian leaped to her feet as she answered:

"I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art. Though all the others leave thee, I will not. It may be I can help thee."

"Thou art a brave child; I must go to Zoroaster; stay thou here, hide thyself among the curtains, escape by the window if any one come to harm thee." She turned and went rapidly out.

But the maid grasped the knife in her girdle, and stole upon her mistress's steps. The din rose louder every moment—the shrieks of wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and arms, and a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows struck the wall together.

Onward flew Nehushta till she reached the temple door; then she listened. Faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of the evening chant. The priests were all within with Zoroaster, unconscious of their danger. Nehushta tried the door. The great bronze gates were locked, and though she pushed with her whole strength, they would not move a hair's breadth.

"Press the nail nearest the middle," said a small voice. Nehushta started. It was the little Syrian slave. She put her hand upon the round head of the nail and pressed. The door opened, turning noiselessly upon its hinges. The seventy priests, in even rank, stood round. Solemnly the chant rose round the sacred fire upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer. But Nehushta with a sudden cry broke their melody.

"Zoroaster—fly—there is yet time! The enemy are come in thousands; they are in the palace. There is barely time!"

The high priest turned calmly, his face unmoved, although the priests ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in fear. As their voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without as though the ocean were beating at the gates.

"Go thou and save thyself," said Zoroaster. "I will not go. If it be the will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. Go thou quickly and save thyself while there is yet time."

But Nehushta took his hand in hers, and gazed into his calm eyes.

"Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will not leave thee!"

"There is no more time! There is no more time! Ye are all dead men! Behold, they are breaking down the doors!"

As she spoke the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus of hideous yells rose, wild and long drawn out.

"Can none of you save Zoroaster?" cried Nehushta.

But Zoroaster gently said:

"Ye cannot save me, for my hour is come; we must die like men, and like priests of the Lord before His altar;" and, raising one hand to heaven, he chanted:

"Praise we the all-wise God Who hath made and created the years and the ages; Praise Him who rides on death, In whose hand are all power and honor and glory; Who made the day of life, That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death."

With a crash the great bronze doors gave way, and fell clanging in. In an instant the temple was filled with a swarm of hideous men. Their swords gleamed aloft as they passed forward, and their yells rent the roof. They had hoped for treasure—they saw but a handful of white-robed, unarmed men. Their rage knew no bounds, and their screams rose more piercing than ever, as they surrounded the doomed band, and dyed their blades in the blood that flowed red over the white vestures.

The priests struggled like brave men, but the foe were a hundred to one. A sharp blade fell swiftly and the brave little slave fell shrieking to the floor.

Nehushta's eyes met the high priest's triumphant gaze and her hands clasped his wildly.

"Oh, Zoroaster, my beloved, my beloved! Say not any more that I am unfaithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I shall be with you beyond the stars for ever!"

"Beyond the stars and for ever!" he cried; "in the light of the glory of God most high!"

The keen sword flashed and severed Nehushta's neck and found its sheath in her lover's heart; and they fell down dead together.



II

SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME



CENTENNIAL HYMN[21]

JOHN G. WHITTIER

Our father's God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one.

Here where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth, our guests we call.

Be with us while the New World greets The Old World thronging all its streets Unveiling all the triumphs won By art or toil beneath the sun; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain.

Thou, who hast here in concord furled The war flags of a gathered world, Beneath the Western skies fulfill The Orient's mission of good-will, And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, Send back its Argonauts of peace.

For art and labor met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honor proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought nor sold!

Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of Thy righteous law; And, cast in some diviner mold, Let the new cycle shame the old!

FOOTNOTE:

[21] By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS[22]

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings, In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

FOOTNOTE:

[22] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



CROSSING THE BAR

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell And after that the dark; And may there be no sadness of farewell When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of time and place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

LORD BYRON

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!



EACH AND ALL[23]

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, On thee, from the hill top looking down; And the heifer that lows on the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse and lists with delight, As his files sweep round yon distant height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent; All are needed by each one— Nothing is fair or good alone.

I caught the linnet's note from heaven, Singing at dawn, on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest at even: He sings the song; but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear—they sing to my eye.

The delicate shell lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their emerald gave; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, And fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair; Their concord is beyond compare.

FOOTNOTE:

[23] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers.



LAUS DEO![24]

ON HEARING BELLS ANNOUNCING EMANCIPATION

JOHN G. WHITTIER

It is done! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel! How the great guns, peal on peal, Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear. Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time!

Let us kneel! God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us! What are we, That our eyes this glory see, That our ears have heard the sound!

For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake he has spoken; He has smitten with his thunder The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken!

Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea He has cast the mighty down; Horse and rider sink and drown; "He hath triumphed gloriously!"

Did we dare In our agony of prayer, Ask for more than He has done? When was ever his right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun!

How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise!

Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin!

It is done! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth!

Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God!

FOOTNOTE:

[24] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



THE PILGRIM FATHERS

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed, And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,— Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame: Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,— They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free! The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared;—this was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine! Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found,—freedom to worship God!



THE PRESENT CRISIS[25]

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West; And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb, To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or wrong; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame Through its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame— In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments see That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's sea; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by.

Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne, Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own.

We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great; Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate! But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within, "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."

Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes—they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone; Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned One new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned, Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves. Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires. Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.

FOOTNOTE:

[25] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works.



THE RECESSIONAL

RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle line— Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine; Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies, The captains and the kings depart— Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,—lest we forget.

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe— Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!



THE SACREDNESS OF WORK

THOMAS CARLYLE

All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; which includes all Kepler's calculations, Newton's meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism, martyrdoms—up to that "Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine! Oh, brother, if this is not "worship," then, I say, the more pity for worship; for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky!

Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen there, in God's Eternity; surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Body-guard of the Empire of Mind. Even in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peopling the immeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind—as a noble mother; as that Spartan mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home, in honor to thy far-distant home, doubt it not—if in the battle thou keep thy shield.



WHAT'S HALLOWED GROUND?

THOMAS CAMPBELL

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by superstition's rod To bow the knee?

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap, In dews that Heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom, Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind, Whose sword or voice has saved mankind, And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die!

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies, in Heaven's sight The sword he draws. What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause.

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth. Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth Earth's compass round, And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground.



III

PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL

THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS OF THE WORLD

Harvard University after mature consideration has proclaimed that in the history of eloquence there are seven great orators who stand preeminent above other orators whom the world calls great. A visitor to that venerable institution of learning, on coming to Memorial Hall, will find at the theater end, on the outside and just above the cornice, seven niches containing gigantic busts of these seven orators: Demosthenes, the Greek; Cicero, the Roman; Chrysostom, the Asiatic Greek; Bossuet, the Frenchman; Chatham, the Englishman; Burke, the Irishman; and Webster, the American.

It is in furtherance of this idea that we have selected short passages of eloquence from each of these men; and also with the threefold purpose of acquainting young students with masterpieces of oratory since the dawn of history, of providing passages well worth committing to memory, and offering extracts well suited for practice in public speaking.



I. DEMOSTHENES

THE ENCROACHMENTS OF PHILIP[26]

Men of Athens, if any one regard without uneasiness the might and dominion of Philip, and imagine that it threatens no danger to the state, or that all his preparations are not against you, I marvel, and would entreat you every one to hear briefly from me the reasons why I am led to form a contrary expectation, and why I deem Philip an enemy; that, if I appear to have the clearer foresight, you may hearken to me; if they, who have such confidence and trust in Philip, you may give your adherence to them.

What did Philip first make himself master of after the peace? Thermopylae and the Phocian state. And how used he his power? He chose to act for the benefit of Thebes, not of Athens. Why so? Because, I conceive, measuring his calculations by ambition, by his desire of universal empire, without regard to peace, quiet, or justice, he saw plainly that to a people of our character and principles nothing could he offer or give that would induce you for self-interest to sacrifice any of the Greeks to him. He sees that you, having respect for justice, dreading the infamy of the thing, and exercising proper forethought, would oppose him in any such attempt as much as if you were at war. But the Thebans, he expected, would, in return for the services done them, allow him in everything else to have his way, and, so far from thwarting or impeding him, would fight on his side if he required it. You are judged by these to be the only people incapable of betraying for lucre the national rights of Greece, or bartering your attachment to her for any obligation or benefit. And this opinion of you he has naturally formed, not only from a view of present times, but by reflection on the past. For assuredly he finds and hears that your ancestors, who might have governed the rest of Greece on terms of submitting to Persia, not only spurned the proposal when Alexander, this man's ancestor, came as herald to negotiate, but preferred to abandon their country and endure any suffering, and thereafter achieved such exploits as all the world loves to remember,—though none could ever speak them worthily, and therefore I must be silent, for their deeds are too mighty to be uttered in words. But the forefathers of the Thebans either joined the barbarian's army or did not oppose it; and therefore he knows that they will selfishly embrace their advantage, without considering the common interest of the Greeks. He thought then if he chose your friendship, it must be on just principles; if he attached himself to them, he should find auxiliaries of his ambition. This is the reason of his preferring them to you both then and now. For certainly he does not see them with a larger navy than you, nor has he acquired an inland empire and renounced that of the sea and the ports, nor does he forget the professions and promises on which he obtained the peace.

I cannot think that Philip, either if he was forced into his former measures, or if he were now giving up the Thebans, would pertinaciously oppose their enemies; his present conduct rather shows that he adopted those measures by choice. All things prove to a correct observer that his whole plan of action is against our state. And this has now become to him a sort of necessity. Consider. He desires empire; he conceives you to be his only opponents. He has been for some time wronging you, as his own conscience best informs him, since, by retaining what belongs to you, he secures the rest of his dominion. He knows that he is plotting against you, and that you are aware of it; and supposing you to have intelligence, he thinks you must hate him; he is alarmed, expecting some disaster, unless he hastens to prevent you. Therefore he is awake and on the watch against us; he courts certain people, who from cupidity, he thinks, will be satisfied with the present, and from dullness of understanding will foresee none of the consequences.

I imagine that what Philip is doing will grieve you hereafter more than it does now. I see the thing progressing, and would that my surmises were false, but I doubt it is too near already. So when you are able no longer to disregard events, when, instead of hearing from me or others that these measures are against Athens, you all see it yourselves and know it for certain, I expect you will be wrathful and exasperated. I fear then, as your ambassadors have concealed the purpose for which they know they were corrupted, those who endeavor to repair what the others have lost may chance to encounter your resentment, for I see it is a practice with many to vent their anger, not upon the guilty, but on persons most in their power. Had you not been then deceived there would be nothing to distress the state. Philip would certainly never have prevailed at sea and come to Attica with a fleet, nor would he have marched with a land force by Phocis and Thermopylae; he must either have acted honorably, observing the peace and keeping quiet, or been immediately in a war similar to that which made him desire the peace. Enough has been said to awaken recollection. Grant, O ye gods, it be not all fully confirmed! Though he may deserve death I would have no man punished to the damage and danger of the country.

FOOTNOTE:

[26] From the Second Philippic delivered at Athens, 344 B.C.



II. MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

ORATION AGAINST ANTONY[27]

Who is there who does not see that Antonius has been adjudged to be an enemy? For what else can we call him, when the Senate decides that extraordinary honors are to be devised for those men who are leading armies against him? What, did not the Martial legion decide by its resolutions that Antonius was an enemy before the Senate had come to any resolution? For if he be not an enemy, we must inevitably decide that those men who have deserted the consul are enemies. Admirably and seasonably, O Romans, have you by your cries sanctioned the noble conduct of the men of the Martial legion, who have come over to the authority of the Senate, to your liberty, and to the whole republic, and have abandoned that enemy and robber and parricide of his country. Nor did they display only their spirit and courage in doing this, but their caution and wisdom also. They encamped at Alba, in a city convenient, fortified, full of brave men and loyal and virtuous citizens. The fourth legion imitated and also joined the army of Caius Caesar.

What more adverse decisions, O Marcus Antonius, can you want? Caesar, who has levied an army against you, is extolled to the skies. The legions are praised in the most complimentary manner, which have abandoned you, which were sent for into Italy by you, and which, if you had been chosen to be a consul rather than an enemy, were wholly devoted to you. And the fearless and honest decision of those legions is confirmed by the Senate and is approved of by the whole Roman people. Do you suppose that the municipal towns and the colonies and the prefectures have any other opinion? All men are agreed with one mind, so that every one who wishes the State to be saved must take every sort of arms against that pestilence. What, does the opinion of Decimus Brutus which has this day reached us appear to any one deserving of being lightly esteemed? The family and name of Brutus has been by some especial kindness and liberality of the immortal gods given to the republic, for the purpose of at one time establishing, and at another of recovering, the liberty of the Roman people. What has been the opinion which Decimus Brutus has formed of Marcus Antonius? He excludes him from his province. He opposes him with his army. He rouses all Gaul to war, which is already aroused of its own accord, and in consequence of the judgment which it has already formed. If Antonius be consul, Brutus is an enemy. Can we then doubt which of these alternatives is the fact?

And just as you now with one mind and one voice affirm that you entertain no doubt, so did the Senate just now decree that Decimus Brutus deserved excellently well of the republic, inasmuch as he was defending the authority of the Senate and the liberty and empire of the Roman people. Defending it against whom? Why, against an enemy. For what other sort of defense deserves praise? In the next place the province of Gaul is praised and is deservedly complimented in most honorable language by the Senate for resisting Antonius. But if that province considered him the consul, and still refused to receive him it would be guilty of great wickedness. For all the provinces belong to the consul of right, and are bound to obey him. Decimus Brutus, imperator and consul-elect, a citizen born for the republic, denies that he is consul. Gaul denies it. All Italy denies it. The Senate denies it. You deny it. Who then thinks he is consul except a few robbers? I think that at present not only men but the immortal gods have all united together to preserve this republic. For if the immortal gods foreshow us the future, by means of portents and prodigies, then it has been openly revealed to us that punishment is near at hand to him, and liberty to us. Or if it was impossible for such unanimity on the part of all men to exist without the inspiration of the gods, in either case how can we doubt as to the inclination of the heavenly deities?

I will act therefore as commanders are in the habit of doing when their army is ready for battle, who although they see their soldiers ready to engage, still address an exhortation to them; and in like manner I will exhort you who are already eager and burning to recover your liberty. You have not to war against an enemy with whom it is possible to make peace on any terms whatever. For he does not now desire your slavery, as he did before, but he is angry now and thirsts for your blood. No sport appears more delightful to him than bloodshed and slaughter and the massacre of citizens before his eyes. You have not, O Romans, to deal with a wicked and profligate man, but with an unnatural, and savage beast. And since he has fallen into a well let him be buried in it. For if he escapes out of it there will be no inhumanity of torture which it will be possible to avoid. But he is at present hemmed in, pressed, and besieged by those troops which we already have, and will soon be still more so by those which in a few days the new consuls will levy. Apply yourselves then to this business, as you are doing. Never have you shown greater unanimity in any cause, never have you been so cordially united with the Senate. And no wonder: for the question now is not in what condition we are to live, but whether we are to live at all, or to perish with torture and ignominy.

FOOTNOTE:

[27] Taken from the Fourth Philippic, delivered in the Forum at Rome.



III. SAINT JOHN CHRYSOSTOM

I. UNDUE LAMENTATIONS OVER THE DEAD

I am ashamed and blush to see unbecoming groups of women pass along the mart, tearing their hair, cutting their arms and cheeks, and all this under the eyes of the Greeks. For what will they not say? What will they not utter concerning us? Are these the men who philosophize about a resurrection? How poorly their actions agree with their opinions! In words they philosophize about a resurrection, but they act just like those who do not acknowledge a resurrection. If they fully believed in a resurrection they would not act thus; if they had really persuaded themselves that a deceased friend had departed to a better state they would not thus mourn. These things and more than these, the unbelievers say when they hear those lamentations. Let us then be ashamed, and be more moderate, and not occasion so much harm to ourselves and to those who are looking on us.

For on what account, tell me, do you thus weep for one departed? Because he was a bad man? You ought on that very account to be thankful, since the occasions of wickedness are now cut off. Because he was good and kind? If so, you ought to rejoice, since he has been soon removed before wickedness had corrupted him; and he has gone away to a world where he stands ever secure, and there is no room even to mistrust a change. Because he was a youth? For that, too, praise Him who has taken him, because He has speedily called him to a better lot. Because he was an aged man? On this account also give thanks and glorify Him that has taken him. Be ashamed of your manner of burial. All this is not that you may weep and lament and afflict yourselves, but that you may render thanks to Him who has taken the departed.

When men are called to some high office, multitudes with praises on their lips assemble to escort them at their departure to their stations, so do all with abundant praise join to send forward, as to a greater honor, those of the pious who have departed. Death is rest, a deliverance from the exhausting labors and cares of this world. When, then, thou seest a relative departing yield not to despondency; give thyself to reflection; examine thy conscience; cherish the thought that after a little while this end awaits thee also. Be more considerate; let another's death excite thee to salutary fear; shake off all indolence; examine your past deeds; quit your sins and commence a happy change.

We differ from unbelievers in our estimate of things. The unbeliever surveys the heaven and worships it, because he thinks it a divinity; he looks to the earth and makes himself a servant to it, and longs for the things of sense. But not so with us. We survey the heaven and admire Him that made it, for we believe it not to be a god, but a work of God. I look on the whole creation, and am led by it to the Creator. He looks on wealth and longs for and laments; I see poverty and rejoice. I see things in one light, he in another. Just so in regard to death. He sees a corpse and thinks of it as a corpse; I see a corpse and behold sleep rather than death. And as in regard to books, both learned persons and unlearned see them with the same eyes, but not with the same understanding. To the unlearned the mere shapes of letters appear, while the learned discover the sense that lies within those letters. So in respect to affairs in general, we all see what takes place with the same eyes, but not with the same understanding and judgment. Since, therefore, in all other things we differ from them, shall we agree with them in our sentiments respecting death? Consider to whom the departed has gone. He has gone where Paul is, and the whole company of the saints. Consider how he shall arise, with what glory and with what splendor.



II. ON APPLAUDING PREACHERS

It is a mischief when one who teaches will in words impugn the teachings by his deeds. This has been the cause of many evils in the churches. Wherefore pardon me, I beseech you, if my discourse dwells long on this evil affection. Many take a great deal of pains to be able to stand up in public and make a long speech; and if they get applause from the multitude, it is to them as if they had gained the very kingdom of heaven; but if silence follows the close of their speech the defection that falls upon their spirits from the silence is worse than hell itself. This has turned the churches upside down, because you desire not to hear a discourse calculated to lead to compunction, but one that may delight you from the sound and composition of the words, as though you were listening to singers and minstrels. When we idly busy ourselves about beautiful expressions and the composition and harmony of our sentences in order that we might not profit; when we make it our aim to be admired, not to instruct; to delight, not prick to the heart; to be applauded and depart with praise, not to correct men's manners, we do wrong. Believe me, I speak what I feel, when as I discourse, I hear myself applauded, at the moment I feel it as a man; I am delighted and give way to the pleasurable feeling; but when I get home and bethink me that those who applauded received no benefit from my discourse, but whatever benefit they ought to have got they lost it while applauding and praising, I am in pain, and groan and weep, and feel as if I had spoken all in vain. I say to myself what profit comes to me from my labors, while the hearers do not choose to benefit by what they hear from me?

Even the heathen philosophers—we hear of their discoursing, and nowhere do we find that noisy applause accompanied their words; we hear of the apostles making public speeches, and yet nowhere do the accounts add that in the midst of their discourses the hearers interrupted the speaker with loud expressions of approbation. Christ spoke publicly on the mount, yet no one said aught until He had finished His discourse. How shall the hearer be otherwise than ridiculous? Nay, he will be deemed a flatterer and his praise no better than irony, when he declares that the teacher spoke beautifully; but what he said, this he cannot tell. This has all the appearance of adulation. For when, indeed, one has been hearing minstrels and players, it is no wonder if such has been the case with him, seeing he looks not how to utter the strain in the same manner; but where the matter is not an exhibition of song or of voice, but the drift and purport of thoughts and wise reflections, and it is easy for every one to tell and report what was said, how can he but deserve the accusation, who cannot tell what the matter was for which he praised the speaker? Nothing so becomes the church as silence and good order.

Noise belongs to the theaters, and baths, and public processions, and market-places; but where doctrines, and such doctrines, are the subject of teaching, there should be stillness and quiet, and calm reflection, and a haven of much repose. These things I beseech and entreat; for I go about in quest of ways by which I shall be enabled to profit your souls. And no small way I take this to be; it will profit not you only, but us also. So shall we not be carried away with pride, not be tempted to love praises and honor, not be led to speak those things which delight, but those things that profit: so shall we lay the whole stress of our time and diligence, not upon arts of composition and beauties of expression, but upon the matter and meaning of the thoughts.

Is not all nature decked with stillness and silence? Over all the face of heaven is scattered the charm of repose. On this account we are evil spoken of even among the Gentiles, as though we did all for display and ostentation. But if this be prevented the love of the chief seats will also be extinguished. It is sufficient, if any one be enamored of praise, that he should obtain it after having been heard, when all is gathered in. Yea, I beseech you that doing all things according to God's will, we may be found worthy of the mercy which is from Him, through the grace and compassion of His only Son.



IV. JACQUES BENIGNE BOSSUET

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE OF CONDE

Our lamentations ought to break forth at the loss of so great a man. But for the love of truth and the shame of those who despise it, listen once more to that noble testimony which he bore to it in dying. Informed by his confessor that if our heart is not entirely right with God, we must, in our addresses, ask God Himself to make it such as He pleases, and address Him in the affecting language of David, "O God, create in me a clean heart," the Prince is arrested by the words, pauses, as if occupied with some great thought; then calling the ecclesiastic who had suggested the idea, he says: "I have never doubted the mysteries of religion, as some have reported." Christians, you ought to believe him, for in the state he then was he owed to the world nothing but truth.

What was then taking place in his soul? What new light dawned upon him? What sudden ray pierced the cloud, and instantly dissipated, not only all the darkness of sense, but the very shadows, and if I dare to say it, the sacred obscurities of faith? What then became of those splendid titles by which our pride is flattered? On the very verge of glory, and in the dawning of a light so beautiful, how rapidly vanish the phantoms of the world! How dim appears the splendor of the most glorious victory! How profoundly we despise the glory of the world, and how deeply regret that our eyes were ever dazzled by its radiance! Come, ye people, or rather ye princes and lords, ye judges of the earth, and ye who open to man the portals of heaven; and more than all others, ye princes and princesses, nobles descended from a long line of kings, lights of France, but to-day in gloom, and covered with your grief, as with a cloud, come and see how little remains of a birth so august, a grandeur so high, a glory so dazzling. Look around on all sides, and see all that magnificence and devotion can do to honor so great a hero; titles and inscriptions, vain signs of that which is no more—shadows which weep around a tomb, fragile images of a grief which time sweeps away with everything else; columns which seem as if they would bear to heaven the magnificent evidence of our emptiness; nothing, indeed, is wanting in all these honors but him to whom they are rendered! Weep then over these feeble remains of human life; weep over that mournful immortality we give to heroes. But draw near, especially ye who run with such ardor the career of glory, intrepid and warrior spirits! Who was more worthy to command you, and in whom did you find command more honorable? Mourn then that great captain, and weeping, say: "Here is the man that led us through all hazards, under whom were formed so many renowned captains, raised by his example to the highest honors of war; his shadow might yet gain battles, and lo! in his silence his very name animates us, and at the same time warns us, that to find at death some rest from our toils, and not arrive unprepared at our eternal dwelling, we must, with an earthly king, yet serve the king of heaven."

Serve then that immortal and ever merciful King, who will value a sigh or a cup of cold water, given in His name, more than all others will value the shedding of your blood. And begin to reckon the time of your useful services from the day on which you gave yourselves to so beneficent a Master. Will not ye too come, ye whom he honored by making you his friends? To whatever extent you enjoyed his confidence, come all of you, and surround his tomb. Mingle your prayers with your tears; and while admiring, in so great a prince, a friendship so excellent, an intercourse so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose goodness equaled his courage. Thus may he ever prove your cherished instructor; thus may you profit by his virtues; and may his death, which you deplore, serve you at once for consolation and example.

For myself, if permitted, after all others, to render the last offices at his tomb, O Prince, the worthy subject of our praises and regrets, thou wilt live forever in my memory. There will thy image be traced, but not with that bold aspect which promises victory. No, I would see in you nothing which death can efface. You will have in that image only immortal traits. I shall behold you such as you were in your last hours under the hand of God, when His glory began to dawn upon you. There shall I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg and at Rocroy; and ravished by so glorious a triumph, I shall give thanks in the beautiful words of the well-beloved disciple, "This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." Enjoy, O Prince, this victory, enjoy it forever, through the everlasting efficacy of that sacrifice.



V. WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM

I. WAR WITH AMERICA[28]

I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment! It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail; cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors.

Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation? Can Parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the other? To give an unlimited credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us—in measures which have reduced this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt! "But yesterday and England might have stood against the world; now none so poor to do her reverence." It is a shameful truth that not only the power and strength of this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned glories, her true honor and substantial dignity, are sacrificed.

My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of Majesty from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our arms abroad is in part known. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve anything except impossibilities; and I know that the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You cannot, I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America. Your armies in the last war effected everything that could be effected; and what was it? It cost a numerous army, under the command of a most able general, a long and laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French America. My lords, you cannot conquer America.

What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss, of the northern force, the best-appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, has retired from the American lines. As to conquest, I repeat, it is impossible. You may swell every expense and every effort still more extravagantly; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow; traffic and barter with every little pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince; your efforts are forever vain and impotent—doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates to an incurable resentment the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms—never—never—never.

FOOTNOTE:

[28] Delivered in the House of Lords, Nov. 18, 1777.



II. ATTEMPT TO SUBJUGATE AMERICA

My lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America on this country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of independence into which your measures hitherto have driven them, is the object which we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, contending for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I love and admire. It is the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. America was indeed the fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis of our naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my lords, if we wish to save our country, most seriously to endeavor the recovery of these most beneficial subjects; and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present moment may be the only one in which we can hope for success.

I would impart to them every enjoyment and freedom which the colonizing subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess; and I do not see why they should not enjoy every fundamental right in their property, and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire or Surrey, or the county I live in, or any other county in England, can claim; reserving always as the sacred right of the mother country the due constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy of the state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce of all her subjects is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservation of every part, to constitute and preserve the prosperous arrangement of the whole empire.

You cannot conciliate America by your present measures. You cannot subdue her by your present, or by any measures. What, then, can you do? You cannot conquer, you cannot gain, but you can address; you can lull the fears and anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the danger that should produce them. But, my lords, the time demands the language of truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servile compliance or blind complaisance. In a just and necessary war to maintain the rights or honor of my country, I would strip the shirt from my back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in principle, impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not contribute a single effort, nor a single shilling. I do not call for vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty; I only recommend to them to make their retreat; and let them make haste, or they may be assured that speedy and condign punishment will overtake them.

My lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which I think my duty, my sentiments on this awful situation. I have laid before you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, the complication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm your sinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, the constitution itself, totters to the foundation. All this disgraceful danger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous offspring of this unnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us now stop short. This is the crisis, the only crisis of time and situation, to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of our delusions. But if, in an obstinate and infatuated perseverance in folly, we slavishly echo the peremptory words this day presented to us, nothing can save this devoted country from complete and final ruin.

Is it possible, can it be believed, that ministers are yet blind to this impending destruction? I did hope that instead of this false and empty vanity, this overweening pride, that ministers would have humbled themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and by an active though a late repentance, have endeavored to redeem them. But, my lords, since they had neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice nor humanity to shun, these oppressive calamities; since not even severe experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their country awaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of Parliament must interpose. I shall, therefore, my lords, propose an amendment to the address to his Majesty, to recommend an immediate cessation of hostilities and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace and liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and permanent prosperity to both countries.



VI. EDMUND BURKE

I. IMPEACHMENT OF HASTINGS[29]

My lords, you have now heard the principles on which Mr. Hastings governs the part of Asia subjected to the British empire. Here he has declared his opinion, that he is a despotic prince; that he is to use arbitrary power; and, of course, all his acts are covered with that shield. "I know," says he, "the Constitution of Asia only from its practice." Will your lordships submit to hear the corrupt practices of mankind made the principles of Government?

He have arbitrary power! My lords, the East India Company have not arbitrary power to give him; the King has no arbitrary power to give him; your lordships have not; nor the Commons; nor the whole Legislature. We have no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power is a thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can give. No man can lawfully govern himself according to his own will, much less can one person be governed by the will of another. We are all born in subjection, all born equally, high and low, governors and governed, in subjection to one great, immutable, preexistent law, prior to all our devices, and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas, and all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by which we are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of which we cannot stir.

This great law does not arise from our conventions or compacts; on the contrary, it gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and sanction they can have;—it does not arise from our vain institutions. Every good gift is of God; all power is of God;—and He, who has given the power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer the exercise of it to be practiced upon any less solid foundation than the power itself. If then all dominion of man over man is the effect of the divine disposition, it is bound by the eternal laws of Him that gave it, with which no human authority can dispense; neither he that exercises it, nor even those who are subject to it. And if they were mad enough to make an express compact that should release their magistrate from his duty, and should declare their lives, liberties, and properties dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that covenant would be void.

This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor can any sovereign have it by succession; for no man can succeed to fraud, rapine, and violence. Those who give and those who receive arbitrary power are alike criminal; and there is no man but is bound to resist it to the best of his power, wherever it shall show its face to the world. Law and arbitrary power are in eternal enmity. Name me a magistrate, and I will name property; name me power, and I will name protection. It is a contradiction in terms; it is blasphemy in religion, it is wickedness in politics, to say that any man can have arbitrary power. In every patent of office the duty is included. For what else does a magistrate exist? To suppose for power, is an absurdity in idea. Judges are guided and governed by the eternal laws of justice, to which we are all subject. We may bite our chains, if we will; but we shall be made to know ourselves, and be taught that man is born to be governed by law; and he that will substitute will in the place of it, is an enemy to God.

My lords, I do not mean to go further than just to remind your lordships of this,—that Mr. Hastings' government was one whole system of oppression, of robbery of individuals, of spoliation of the public, and of supersession of the whole system of the English Government, in order to vest in the worst of the natives all the power that could possibly exist in any government; in order to defeat the ends which all governments ought, in common, to have in view. In the name of the Commons of England, I charge all this villainy upon Warren Hastings in this last moment of my application to you.

My lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national justice? Do we want a cause, my lords? You have the cause of oppressed princes, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. Do you want a criminal, my lords? When was there so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one? No, my lords, you must not look to punish any other such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance enough in India to nourish such another delinquent.

Therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has abused. I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain, whose national character he has dishonored. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws, rights and liberties he has subverted. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose property he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and desolate. I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in both sexes. And I impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every age, condition, rank, and situation in the world.

FOOTNOTE:

[29] On the 15th of February, 1788, Edmund Burke began a four days' speech in the impeachment of Warren Hastings.



II. CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA[30]

Sir, I have in general no very exalted opinion of the virtue of paper government; nor of any politics in which the plan is to be wholly separated from the execution. But when I saw that anger and violence prevailed every day more and more, and that things were hastening towards an incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution gave way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveler; and there are occasions when any chance of doing good must be laid hold on, even by the most inconsiderable person. To restore order and repose to an empire so great and so distracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and obtain pardon for the efforts of the meanest understanding.

The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war; not peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate and endless negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord fomented, from principle, in all parts of the empire. It is simple peace; sought in its natural course, and in its ordinary haunts. It is peace sought in the spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the Mother Country, to give permanent satisfaction to your people; and to reconcile them to each other in the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which reconciles them to British government.

The principle of this proceeding is large enough for my purpose. I mean to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation; and where there has been a material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply concession on the one part or on the other. In this state of things I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate from us. Great and acknowledged force is not impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a power will be attributed to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak are the concessions of fear. When such an one is disarmed, he is wholly at the mercy of his superior; and he loses forever that time and those chances, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and resources of all inferior power.

The leading questions on which you must this day decide, are these two: First, whether you ought to concede; and secondly, what your concession ought to be. On the first of these questions we have gained some ground. But I am sensible that a good deal more is still to be done. Indeed, Sir, to enable us to determine both on the one and the other of these great questions with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be necessary to consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar circumstances of the object which we have before us; because after all our struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America according to that nature and to those circumstances, and not according to our own imaginations, nor according to abstract ideas of right.

America, gentlemen say, is a noble object. It is an object well worth fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a people be the best way of gaining them. Gentlemen in this respect will be led to their choice of means by their complexions and their habits. Those who understand the military art will of course have some predilection for it. Those who wield the thunder of the state may have more confidence in the efficacy of arms. But I confess my opinion is much more in favor of prudent management than of force. The use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be conquered.

My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the effect of force, and an armament is not a victory. If you do not succeed, you are without resource; for, conciliation failing, force remains; but, force failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. Power and authority are sometimes bought by kindness; but they can never be begged as alms by an impoverished and defeated violence. Nothing less will content me than whole America. I do not choose to consume its strength along with our own, because in all parts it is the British strength that I consume. I do not choose to be caught by a foreign enemy at the end of this exhausting conflict; and still less in the midst of it. I may escape; but I can make no insurance against such an event. Let me add, that I do not choose to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that has made the country.

In the character of the Americans, a love of freedom is the predominating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole; and as an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies become suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them by chicanery, what they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English colonies probably than in any other people of the earth.

Sir, from these six sources—of descent, of form of government, of religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of government—from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and increased with the increase of their wealth; a spirit that unhappily meeting with an exercise of power in England which, however lawful, is not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, has kindled this flame that is ready to consume us.

I am much against any further experiments which tend to put to the proof any more of these allowed opinions which contribute so much to the public tranquillity. In effect, we suffer as much at home by this loosening of all ties, and this concussion of all established opinions, as we do abroad; for in order to prove that the Americans have no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert the maxims which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate without attacking some of those principles, or deriding some of those feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood.

The temper and character which prevail in our colonies are, I am afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language in which they would hear you tell them this tale would detect the imposition; your speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery.

But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. The ocean remains. You cannot pump this dry; and as long as it continues in its present bed, so long all the causes which weaken authority by distance will continue. If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of American liberty be for the greater part, or rather entirely, impracticable; if the ideas of criminal process be inapplicable—or, if applicable, are in the highest degree inexpedient—what way yet remains? No way is open but to comply with the American spirit as necessary; or, if you please, to submit to it as a necessary evil.

FOOTNOTE:

[30] Delivered in the House of Commons, March 22, 1775.



III. ENGLISH PRIVILEGES IN AMERICA

Reflect, sirs, that when you have fixed a quota of taxation for every colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. You must make new Boston Port Bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging men to England for trial. You must send out new fleets, new armies. All is to begin again. From this day forward the empire is never to know an hour's tranquillity. An intestine fire will be kept alive in the bowels of the colonies, which one time or other must consume this whole empire.

Instead of a standing revenue, you will therefore have a perpetual quarrel. Indeed, the noble lord who proposed this project seems himself to be of that opinion. His project was rather designed for breaking the union of the colonies than for establishing a revenue. But whatever his views may be, as I propose the peace and union of the colonies as the very foundation of my plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation is perpetual discord.

Compare the two. This I offer to give you is plain and simple; the other full of perplexed and intricate mazes. This is mild; that harsh. This is found by experience effectual for its purposes; the other is a new project. This is universal; the other calculated for certain colonies only. This is immediate in its conciliatory operation; the other remote, contingent, full of hazard. Mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling people—gratuitous, unconditional, and not held out as a matter of bargain and sale. I have done my duty in proposing it to you. I have indeed tired you by a long discourse; but this is the misfortune of those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must win every inch of their ground by argument. You have heard me with goodness. May you decide with wisdom! For my part, I feel my mind greatly disburdened by what I have done to-day. I have been the less fearful of trying your patience, because, on this subject, I mean to spare it altogether in future. I have this comfort, that in every stage of the American affairs I have steadily opposed the measures that have produced the confusion, and may bring on the destruction, of this empire. I now go so far as to risk a proposal of my own. If I cannot give peace to my country, I give it to my conscience.

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonists always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government,—they will cling and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be one thing, and their privileges another, that these two things may exist without any mutual relation, the cement is gone—the cohesion is loosened—and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you.