The sun of Gettysburg rose on the 1st of July and saw the army of the gray already advancing in line of battle; the army of the blue still hastening eagerly forward and converging to this point. The glory of midsummer filled this landscape as if nature had arrayed a fitting scene for a transcendent event. Once more the unquailing lines so long arrayed against each other stood face to face. Once more the inexpressible emotion mingled of yearning memory, of fond affection, of dread foreboding, of high hope, of patriotic enthusiasm and of stern resolve, swept for a moment over thousands of brave hearts, and the next instant the overwhelming storm of battle burst. For three long, proud, immortal days it raged and swayed, the earth trembling, the air quivering, the sky obscured; with shouting charge, and rattling volley, the thundering cannonade piling the ground with mangled and bleeding blue and gray, the old, the young, but always and everywhere the devoted and the brave. Doubtful the battle hung and paused. Then a formidable bolt of war was forged on yonder wooded height and launched with withering blasts and roar of fire against the foe. It was a living bolt and sped as if resistless. It reached and touched the flaming line of the embattled blue. It pierced the line. For one brief moment in the sharp agony of mortal strife it held its own. It was the supreme moment of the peril of the Union. It was the heroic crisis of the war. But the fiery force was spent. In one last, wild, tumultuous struggle brave men dashed headlong against men as brave, and the next moment that awful bolt of daring courage was melted in the fervent heat of an equal valor, and the battle of Gettysburg was fought.

If the rising sun of the Fourth of July, 1863, looked upon a sad and unwonted scene, a desolated battlefield, upon which the combatants upon either side had been American citizens, yet those combatants could they have seen aright would have hailed that day as more glorious than ever before. For as the children of Israel beheld Moses descending amid the clouds and thunder of the sacred mount bearing the divinely illuminated law, so from that smoking and blood-drenched field on which all hope of future union might seem to have perished utterly, they would have seen a more perfect union rising, with the constitution at last immutably interpreted, and they would have heard, before they were uttered by human lips, the words of which Gettysburg is the immortal pledge to mankind, government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

FOOTNOTE:

[47] Delivered at Gettysburg, July 3, 1888. The occasion was a reunion of the Blue and the Gray on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the great battle.



NAPOLEON

THOMAS CORWIN

Napoleon thought France was too small, that Europe should bow down to him. But as soon as this idea took possession of his soul he became powerless, while he meditated the subjugation of Russia. He who holds the winds in his power, gathered the snows from the north and blew them upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled, they froze, they perished. And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal dominion, is summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law, "Thou shalt not covet anything which is thy neighbor's." And how is the mighty fallen! He beneath whose proud footstep Europe trembled, he is now an exile at Elba, and now, finally a prisoner on the rock of St. Helena, and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty conqueror. And all his annexations have come to that! His last hour has now come, and he, the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as in the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless—even as a beggar, so he died. On the wings of a tempest, that raged with unwonted fury, up to the throne of the only power that controlled him while he lived, went the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in righteousness shall perish from the earth.



NAPOLEON[48]

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL

A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon, a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity, and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris. I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.

I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, "I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me. I would rather have been that man, and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as Napoleon the Great."

FOOTNOTE:

[48] By permission of C. P. Farrell, publisher.



NATIONAL CONTROL OF CORPORATIONS[49]

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

When this government was founded there were no great individual or corporate fortunes, and commerce and industry were being carried on very much as they had been carried on in the days when Nineveh and Babylon stood in the Mesopotamian Valley. Sails, oars, wheels—those were the instruments of commerce. The pack train, the wagon train, the row boat, the sailing craft—those were the methods of commerce. Everything has been revolutionized in the business world since then, and the progress of civilization from being a dribble has become a torrent. There was no particular need at that time of bothering as to whether the nation or the state had control of corporations. They were easy to control. Now, however, the exact reverse is the case. And remember when I say corporations I do not mean merely trusts, technically so-called, merely combinations of corporations, or corporations under certain peculiar conditions. For instance, some time ago the Attorney General took action against a certain trust. There was considerable discussion as to whether the trust aimed at would not seek to get out from under the law by becoming a single corporation. Now I want laws that will enable us to deal with any evil no matter what shape it takes.

I want to see the government able to get at it definitely, so that the action of the government cannot be evaded by any turning within or without federal or state statutes. At present we have really no efficient control over a big corporation which does business in more than one state. Frequently the corporation has nothing whatever to do with the state in which it is incorporated except to get incorporated; and all its business may be done in entirely different communities—communities which may object very much to the methods of incorporation in the state named. I do not believe that you can get any action by any state, I do not believe it practicable to get action by all the states that will give us satisfactory control of the trusts, of big corporations; and the result is at present that we have a great, powerful, artificial creation which has no creator to which it is responsible. The creator creates it and then it goes and operates somewhere else, and there is no interest on the part of the creator to deal with it. It does not do anything where the creator has power; it operates entirely outside of the creator's jurisdiction.

It is, of course, a mere truism to say that the corporation is the creature of the state, that the state is sovereign. There should be a real and not a nominal sovereign, some one sovereign to which the corporation shall be really and not nominally responsible. At present if we pass laws nobody can tell whether they will amount to anything. That has two bad effects. In the first place, the corporation becomes indifferent to the lawmaking body; and in the next place, the lawmaking body gets into that most pernicious custom of passing a law not with reference to what will be done under it, but with reference to its effects upon the opinions of the voters. That is a bad thing. When any body of lawmakers passes a law, not simply with reference to whether that law will do good or ill, but with the knowledge that not much will come of it, and yet that perhaps the people as a whole will like to see it on the statute books—it does not speak well for the lawmakers, and it does not speak well for the people either. What I hope to see is power given to the national legislature which shall make the control real. It would be an excellent thing if you could have all the states act on somewhat similar lines so that you would make it unnecessary for the national government to act; but all of you know perfectly well that the states will not act on similar lines. No advance whatever has been made in the direction of intelligent dealing by the states as a collective body with those great corporations.

I am not advocating anything very revolutionary. I am advocating action to prevent anything revolutionary. Now if we can get adequate control by the nation of these great corporations, then we can pass legislation which will give us the power of regulation and supervision over them. If the nation had that power, I should advocate as strenuously as I know how that the power should be exercised with extreme caution and self-restraint.

FOOTNOTE:

[49] From a speech delivered at Symphony Hall, Boston, August 25, 1902.



THE NEGRO

HENRY W. GRADY

The love we feel for that race you cannot measure nor comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there looks down to bless, and through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I see women with strained and anxious faces, and children alert yet helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions, and in a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of loving hands, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door, put a black man's loyalty between her and danger.

I catch another vision. The crisis of battle, a soldier struck, staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling death—bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who in life fought against his freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away and with downcast eyes and uncertain step start out into new and strange fields, faltering, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost in the light of this better and brighter day. And out into this new world—strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both—I follow! And may God forget my people when they forget these.



NEW ENGLAND

JOSIAH QUINCY

The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on every page of our history,—the language addressed by every past age of New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, none but knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge, has any vigor or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and in the sanctions of the Christian religion.

Men of Massachusetts! citizens of Boston! descendants of the early immigrants! consider your blessings; consider your duties. You have an inheritance acquired by the labors and sufferings of six successive generations of ancestors. They founded the fabric of your prosperity in a severe and masculine morality, having intelligence for its cement, and religion for its groundwork. Continue to build on the same foundation, and by the same principles let the extending temple of your country's freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in proportions of intellectual and moral architecture,—just, simple, and sublime.



THE NEW SOUTH

HENRY W. GRADY

"There was a South of slavery and secession—that South is dead. There is a South of union and freedom—that South, thank God, is living, breathing, growing every hour." These words, delivered from the immortal lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then and true now, I shall make my text to-night.

Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to you my appreciation of the kindness by which I am permitted to address you. I make this abrupt acknowledgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my provincial voice in this ancient and august presence, I could find courage for no more than the opening sentence, it would be well if in that sentence I had met in a rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, so to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my heart. Permitted, through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that I appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to speak at this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of original New England hospitality—and honors the sentiment that in turn honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to my people made plain.

My friends, Dr. Talmage has told you that the typical American has yet to come. Let me tell you that he has already come. Great types, like valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union of the colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the straightening of their purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a century, came he who stands as the first typical American, the first who comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the majesty and grace of this republic—Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of Puritan and Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost. He was greater than Puritan, greater than Cavalier, in that he was American, and that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and thrilling forces of his ideal government—charging it with such tremendous meaning and elevating it above human suffering that martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherishing the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are honored, and in our common glory as Americans there will be plenty and to spare for your forefathers and for mine.

Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's hand, the picture of your returning armies. He has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes! Will you bear with me while I tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late war—an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory—in pathos and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes home! Let me picture to you the footsore Confederate soldier, as buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds. Having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. What does he find—let me ask you who went to your homes eager to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice—what does he find when, having followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence—the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.

What does he do—this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their hands to work. There was little bitterness in all this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed.

Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South—misguided, perhaps, but beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave and generous always. In the record of her social, industrial and political lustration we await with confidence the verdict of the world.

The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed, and her brave armies were beaten.

This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late struggle between the States was war and not rebellion; revolution and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I should be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hill—a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men—that of a brave and simple man who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shall send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand and that human slavery was swept forever from American soil, and the American Union was saved from the wreck of war.

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every foot of soil about the city in which I live is as sacred as a battle-ground of the republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, and doubly hallowed to us by the blood of those who died hopeless, but undaunted, in defeat—sacred soil to all of us—rich with memories that make us purer and stronger and better—silent but stanch witnesses in its red desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless glory of American arms—speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States and the imperishable brotherhood of the American people.

Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation, that in their hearts which never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, and glorifying his path to the grave—will she make this vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat and delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in its fullest sense, when he said: "Standing hand to hand and clasping hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united now and united forever." There have been difficulties, contentions, and controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment,

"Those opened eyes, Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in th' intestine shock, Shall now, in mutual, well beseeming ranks, March all one way."



DANIEL O'CONNELL[50]

WENDELL PHILLIPS

I do not think I exaggerate when I say that never since God made Demosthenes has He made a man better fitted for a great work than He did Daniel O'Connell.

You may say that I am partial to my hero, but John Randolph of Roanoke, who hated an Irishman almost as much as he did a Yankee, when he got to London and heard O'Connell, the old slaveholder threw up his hands and exclaimed, "This is the man, those are the lips, the most eloquent that speak English in my day," and I think he was right.

Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could charm a college; Choate could delude a jury; Clay could magnetize a senate; and Tom Corwin could hold the mob in his right hand, but no one of these men could do more than this one thing. The wonder about O'Connell was that he could out-talk Corwin, he could charm a college better than Everett, and leave Henry Clay himself far behind in magnetizing a senate.

It has been my privilege to have heard all the great orators of America who have become singularly famed about the world's circumference. I know what was the majesty of Webster; I know what it was to melt under the magnetism of Henry Clay; I have seen eloquence in the iron logic of Calhoun; but O'Connell was Webster, Clay, and Calhoun in one. Before the courts, logic; at the bar of the senate, unanswerable and dignified; on the platform, grace, wit, and pathos; before the masses, a whole man. Emerson says, "There is no true eloquence, unless there is a man behind the speech." Daniel O'Connell was listened to because all England and Ireland knew that there was a man behind the speech,—one who could be neither bought, bullied, nor cheated.

When I was in Naples, I asked Thomas Fowell Buxton, "Is Daniel O'Connell an honest man?" "As honest a man as ever breathed," said he, and then he told me the following story: "When, in 1830, O'Connell first entered Parliament, the anti-slavery cause was so weak that it had only Lushington and myself to speak for it, and we agreed that when he spoke I should cheer him up, and when I spoke he should cheer me, and these were the only cheers we ever got. O'Connell came with one Irish member to support him. A large party of members (I think Buxton said twenty-seven) whom we called the West India interest, the Bristol party, the slave party, went to him, saying, 'O'Connell, at last you are in the House, with one helper. If you never go down to Freemason's Hall with Buxton and Brougham, here are twenty-seven votes for you on every Irish question. If you work with those Abolitionists, count us always against you.'

"It was a terrible temptation. How many a so-called statesman would have yielded! O'Connell said, 'Gentlemen, God knows I speak for the saddest people the sun sees; but may my right hand forget its cunning and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if to help Ireland—even Ireland—I forget the negro one single hour.' From that day," said Buxton, "Lushington and I never went into the lobby that O'Connell did not follow us."

And then, besides his irreproachable character he had what is half the power of a popular orator, he had a majestic presence. A little O'Connell would have been no O'Connell at all. In youth he had the brow of a Jupiter and a stature of Apollo. Sydney Smith says of Lord John Russell's five feet, when he went down to Yorkshire after the Reform Bill had passed, the stalwart hunters of Yorkshire exclaimed, "What, that little shrimp, he carry the Reform Bill!" "No, no!" said Smith, "he was a large man, but the labors of the bill shrunk him."

I remember the story Russell Lowell tells of Webster; when a year or two before his death, the Whig party thought of dissolution, Webster came home from Washington and went down to Faneuil Hall to protest, and four thousand of his fellow Whigs came out; drawing himself up to his loftiest proportion, his brow charged with thunder, before the listening thousands, he said, "Gentlemen, I am a Whig, a Massachusetts Whig, a Faneuil Hall Whig, a revolutionary Whig, a constitutional Whig. If you break up the Whig party, sir, where am I to go?" And says Lowell, "We all held our breath, thinking where he could go. But if he had been five feet three, we should have said, 'Who cares where you go?'"

Well, O'Connell had all that; and true nature seemed to be speaking all over him. It would have been a pleasure even to look at him if he had not spoken at all, and all you thought of was a greyhound.

And then he had what so few American speakers have, a voice that sounded the gamut. I heard him once in Exeter Hall say, "Americans, I send my voice careering across the Atlantic like a thunderstorm, to tell the slave-holders of the Carolinas that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to remind the negro that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near," and I seemed to hear his voice reverberating and reechoing back to Boston from the Rocky Mountains.

And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish brogue, he would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall laugh, and the next moment there would be tears in his voice, like an old song, and five thousand men would be in tears. And all the while no effort—he seemed only breathing.

"As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue."

FOOTNOTE:

[50] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



THE OPEN DOOR

PATRICK HENRY

I venture to prophesy there are those now living who will see this favored land among the most powerful on earth; able, sir, to take care of herself, without resorting to that policy which is always so dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid. Yes, sir, they will see her great in arts and in arms, her golden harvests waving over fields of immeasurable extent, her commerce permeating the most distant seas. But, sir, you must have men, you cannot get along without them. Those heavy forests of valuable timber under which your lands are groaning must be cleared away. Those vast riches which cover the face of your soil as well as those which lie hid in its bosom are to be developed and gathered only by the skill and enterprise of men. Your timber must be worked up into ships to transport the productions of the soil from which it has been cleared. Then you must have commercial men and commercial capital to take off your productions and find the best markets for them abroad. Your great want, sir, is the want of men, and these you must have and will have speedily if you are wise.

Do you ask how you are to get them? Open your doors and they will come in. The population of the Old World is full to overflowing. That population is oppressed by the government under which they live. They are already standing on tiptoe on their native shores and looking to your coasts with wistful and longing eyes. They see here a land blessed with natural and political advantages, which are not equaled by those of any other country upon earth, a land upon which a gracious Providence hath emptied the horn of abundance, a land over which peace hath now stretched forth her white wings, and where content and plenty lie down at every door.

Sir, they see something still more attractive than all this. They see a land where Liberty hath taken up her abode, that Liberty whom they had considered a fabled goddess existing only in the fancies of poets. They see her here a real divinity, her altars rising on every hand throughout these happy states, her glories chanted by three millions of tongues and the whole region smiling under her blessed influence. Let but this, our celestial goddess, stretch forth her fair hands toward the people of the Old World, and you will see them pouring in from the North, from the South, from the East, and from the West. Your wilderness will be cleared and settled, your deserts will smile, your ranks will be filled, and you will soon be in a condition to defy the powers of any adversary.



ORGANIZATION OF THE WORLD[51]

EDWIN D. MEAD

To-day, a century after Washington, we are called to a vision as inspiring and imperative as that which came to him as he rode up the Mohawk, and to a greater organizing work than that which he performed with such wisdom, courage, patience, and success. He was commanded to organize a nation; we are commanded to organize the world. He saw that the time had come when our power and our true interests must be measured on a continental scale; we are warned that the time has come when we must conceive of our power and our true interests by the measure of mankind. Let no man think himself any longer in the first place as a New England man, as a New Yorker, as a Virginian, but all of us Americans,—that was the vision and message of Washington; and that insight and that law, coming to petty, prejudiced, jealous, and disordered states, put an end to chaos and brought peace, prosperity, strength, largeness of life, and an ever broadening horizon. Let no man think of himself any longer in the first place as an American, as an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a German, a Russian, but all men in the first place citizens of the world,—that is the message which has been thundered in the ears of Washington's America in these eventful and surprising years as it was never done before. It took a civil war to teach Gadsden's Carolina and Washington's Virginia that the interests of the nation are above those of the state, and that a state can only then be true to itself and its duty when it remembers that there is a lower and a higher, and knows well what that lower and that higher are. Virginia and Massachusetts have no less genuine and worthy pride as states, they do not put to smaller or less vital use their sacred history and heritage, their great sons are no less their sons, because they bowed their heads to the baptism of a nation which must measure its powers and duties on a continental scale. They know that national life into which they are incorporated as the nobler and more commanding life. The nation is organized. Its logic was shaped finally in the fiery forge of war.

The nation is the largest thing we have yet got organized. We must organize the world. Unending jealousies, commercial clash, friction of law, paralysis of industry, financial disorder, the misdirection and miscarriage of good energy, mischievous ignorance and prejudice, incalculable waste, chronic alarm, and devastating wars are before us until we do it. That is the lesson of the hour. The relations and interdependence of the nations of Christendom have become, by the amazing advance of civilization in the century, closer, complexer, and more imperious far than the relations of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Georgia, when Washington from the heights of the Alleghanies looked into the West and thought of the continent. Yet France and Germany, England and Russia, America and Spain, in their great burrs of guns, jealous of each other, distrustful, envious, afraid, go on in their separate, incooeperant, abortive ways, keeping God's earth in chaos, when a great wisdom and great virtue like Washington's a hundred years ago would convert them into a family of nations, into a federation and fraternity, with a comprehensive law, an efficient police, and a purposeful economy.

In the Parliament House at Westminster, among the scenes from English history painted on the walls, the American is most stirred when he comes to the Departure of the Pilgrim Fathers to found New England. England—the England descended from the England which "harried them out"—will not let that scene go as a part of American history only, but claims it now as one of the proudest scenes in her own history, too. So the American will no more view Wyclif and Shakespeare and Cromwell and Milton and Gladstone as chiefly Englishmen, but as fellow-citizens,—as he views Victor Hugo and Kant and Tolstoi and Mazzini. The American is to be pitied who does not feel himself native to Stratford and to London, as to St. Louis or St. Paul,—native to Leyden and to Weimar and Geneva. Each narrower circle only gains in richness and in sacredness and power as it expands into the larger; each community and state and nation, as it enters into a broader and completer organic life. This is the divine message to the world. Let there be peace; let there be order; and, that there may be, let us know what manner of men we are. "Peace on earth!"—that was the first Christmas greeting; and the first Christian argument upon the hill of Mars,—"God hath made of one blood all nations of men."

FOOTNOTE:

[51] By permission of the author.



THE PERMANENCY OF EMPIRE[52]

WENDELL PHILLIPS

I appeal to History! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of this world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? Alas! Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate. So thought Palmyra—where is she? So thought the countries of Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate Ottoman. In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined immortality; and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps. The days of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their bards. Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud and potent as she appears, may not, one day, be what Athens is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, that, when the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant!

FOOTNOTE:

[52] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



THE PILGRIMS[53]

WENDELL PHILLIPS

When we undertake to criticise the Pilgrims, we ought first to ask ourselves the question, where would they be to-day? Indeed, to be as good as our fathers, we must be better. Imitation is not discipleship. Thee and thou, a stationary hat, bad grammar and worse manners, with an ugly coat, are not George Fox to-day. You will recognize him in any one who rises from the lap of artificial life, flings away its softness, and startles you with the sight of a man. Neither do I acknowledge the right of Plymouth to the whole rock. No, the rock underlies all America; it only crops out here. It has cropped out a great many times in our history. You may recognize it always. Old Putnam stood upon it at Bunker Hill, when he said to the Yankee boys: "Don't fire till you see the whites of their eyes." Ingraham had it for ballast when he put his little sloop between two Austrian frigates, and threatened to blow them out of the water if they did not respect the flag of the United States in the case of Martin Koozta. Jefferson had it for a writing-desk when he drafted the Declaration of Independence and the "Statute of Religious Liberty" for Virginia. Lovejoy rested his musket upon it when they would not let him print his paper at Alton, and he said: "Death or free speech!" Ay! it cropped out again. Garrison had it for an imposing-stone when he looked into the faces of seventeen millions of angry men, and printed his sublime pledge, "I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard."

If I were going to raise a monument to the Pilgrims, I know where I should place it. I should place one corner-stone on the rock, and the other on that level spot where fifty of the one hundred were buried before the winter was over; but the remainder closed up shoulder to shoulder as firm, unflinching, hopeful as ever. Yes, death rather than compromise of Elizabeth. I would write on their monument two mottoes: One, "The Right is more than our Country!" and over the graves of the fifty: "Death, rather than Compromise!"

How true it is that the Pilgrims originated no new truth! How true it is, also, that it is not truth which agitates the world! Plato in the groves of the Academy sounded on and on to the utmost depth of philosophy, but Athens was quiet. Calling around him the choicest minds of Greece, he pointed out the worthlessness of their altars and shame of public life, but Athens was quiet. It was all speculation. When Socrates walked the streets of Athens, and, questioning every-day life, struck the altar till the faith of the passer-by faltered, it came close to action; and immediately they gave him hemlock, for the city was turned upside down. What the Pilgrims gave the world was not thought, but action. Men, calling themselves thinkers, had been creeping along the Mediterranean, from headland to headland, in their timidity; the Pilgrims launched boldly out into the Atlantic and trusted God. That is the claim they have upon posterity. It was action that made them what they were.

FOOTNOTE:

[53] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.



PRINCIPLES OF THE FOUNDERS[54]

EDWIN D. MEAD

The old Athenian life and our American life have much in common. The resemblances between Greek character and ours are marked. Those little Greek democracies were more like our great one than almost any intervening states. They offer us more pertinent examples and warnings than almost any other; and they are of peculiar value for us in this, that their history is rounded and complete, and in it we can see the various conflicting principles and tendencies working themselves out to the end, and so learn the full lesson of their logic. Pericles and Demosthenes speak to America as well as to Athens; and we may well domesticate their admonitions here to-day and emphasize them to our people and ourselves as the words of fellow-citizens, of Washington and Jefferson, of Sumner and Emerson. If the life and burning eloquence of Demosthenes teach anything, if the rounded period of history whose darkness he lights up teaches anything, they teach the vitality and the imperious moment of the appeal, in times of danger and temptation, to the fathers and to the great past, to the history and the teachings which in times of soberness have ever had the nation's highest honor. No nation which is virtuous and vital will ever be slave to the past; at the command of virtue and of vision it will snap precedent like a reed. But every people of seriousness, stability, and character is a reverent people; and when a people's reverence for its noble ancestors, its sacred oracles and its venerable charters ceases to be sturdy and becomes sentimental, much more when it ceases to exist at all, then the hour of that people's decay and doom hast struck. On this anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, let us remember and vow never to forget that when it becomes general or popular among us, as it has become common, to flout at the Declaration and its principles; whenever the nation commits itself to courses which for the sake of consistency and respectability invite and compel its disparagement; when our politics does not match our poetry and cannot be sung; when Washington and Jefferson and Sumner and Lincoln cease to be quoted in our cabinet and at our helm, then it is not well with us, but ill, and it is time to study the compass.

It is right to say, and let us remember it on this sacred anniversary, as an inspiration to duty, that Boston has been the center of the two great movements in our history, the movement which gave us independence and the movement which purged the land of slavery. If we could rear on Boston Common a monument upon which, around the central form of Samuel Adams, should be grouped the figures of James Otis and John Adams, John Hancock and Joseph Warren and their associates, how much that monument would represent of what was most dynamic in the days which led up to the American Revolution! If we could rear beside it a monument upon which, around the central figure of William Lloyd Garrison, should stand Wendell Phillips, Parker and Channing, Lowell and Emerson, Sumner and Andrew, how much would be represented by that group of what was most potent in the anti-slavery struggle! When the final history is written of the great social and industrial revolution into which we have already far advanced, and which will continue until there exists throughout the republic an industrial equality as great as the political equality which we now enjoy or claim to enjoy, it will be seen that here, too, Boston has done her conspicuous part. And when we survey the movement in behalf of the overthrow of war, in behalf of the peace of nations and the organization of the world, the preeminent task of our own time, we shall find that in this great movement Boston has led America; I think it is not too much to claim that she has led the world. As it was the glory of Boston and of Massachusetts, proudest of cities and commonwealths, strongest in patriotism, to lead the country in the assertion of national sovereignty against every false emphasis of state rights, in that long struggle which nearly cost the nation its life, and which made it forever impossible for the American to say henceforth, "My state is first," so it has been their glory to lead in the creation of the sentiment which meets the peculiar problem and menace of our own age, enabling and inspiring men to harmonize their politics and their religion, and know that their first allegiance is not to their nation but to humanity.

In this our Commonwealth and city have but been true to the sublime pointings and ideals of the leaders of the Revolution and the founders of the Republic, whom we celebrate to-day. Independence for the sake of independence, a new nation for the sake of a new nation,—that was not the aim and motive of our fathers. Their dream was of a new nation of juster institutions and more equal laws, a nation in which should dwell righteousness, and which should mark a new era among men. It should be especially an era of peace and brotherhood among the nations. They hated war. They believed that the time had come when the bloody dispensation of war, with all its terrible wickedness and waste, should cease; and their ambition and high hope was that their new republic might lead in the new dispensation of peace and order and mutual regard.

FOOTNOTE:

[54] From an oration delivered before the city government and citizens of Boston, at Faneuil Hall, July 4, 1903. Used by permission of the author.



THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WAR[55]

WILLIAM E. CHANNING

Nothing in the whole compass of legislation is so solemn as a declaration of war. By nothing do a people incur such tremendous responsibility. Unless justly waged, war involves a people in the guilt of murder. The state which, without the command of justice and God, sends out fleets and armies to slaughter fellow-creatures, must answer for the blood it sheds, as truly as the assassin for the death of his victim. Oh, how loudly does the voice of blood cry to heaven from the field of battle! Undoubtedly the men whose names have come down to us with the loudest shouts of ages stand now before the tribunal of eternal justice condemned as murderers; and the victories which have been thought to encircle a nation with glory have fixed the same brand on multitudes in the sight of the final and Almighty Judge. How essential is it to a nation's honor that it should engage in war with a full conviction of rectitude!

But there is one more condition of an honorable war. A nation should engage in it with unfeigned sorrow. It should beseech the throne of grace with earnest supplication that the dreadful office of destroying fellow-beings may not be imposed on it. War concentrates all the varieties of human misery, and a nation which can inflict these without sorrow contracts deeper infamy than from cowardice. It is essentially barbarous, and will be looked back upon by enlightened and Christian ages with the horror with which we recall the atrocities of savage tribes. Let it be remembered that the calamities of war, its slaughter, famine, and desolation, instead of being confined to its criminal authors, fall chiefly on multitudes who have had no share in provoking and no voice in proclaiming it; and let not a nation talk of its honor which has no sympathy with woes, which is steeled to the most terrible sufferings of humanity.

When recently the suggestion of war was thrown out to this people, what reception did it meet? Was it viewed at once in the light in which a Christian nation should immediately and most earnestly consider it? Was it received as a proposition to slaughter thousands of our fellow-creatures? Did we feel as if threatened with a calamity more fearful than earthquakes, famine, or pestilence? The blight which might fall on our prosperity drew attention; but the thought of devoting as a people, our power and resources to the destruction of mankind, of those whom a common nature, whom reason, conscience, and Christianity command us to love and save,—did this thrill us with horror? Did the solemn inquiry break forth through our land, Is the dreadful necessity indeed laid upon us to send abroad death and woe? No. There was little manifestation of the sensibility with which men and Christians should look such an evil in the face.

As a people we are still seared and blinded to the crimes and miseries of war. The principles of honor, to which the barbarism and infatuation of dark ages gave birth, prevail among us. The generous, merciful spirit of our religion is little understood. The law of love preached from the cross and written in the blood of the Saviour is trampled upon by public men. The true dignity of man, which consists in breathing and cherishing God's spirit of justice and philanthropy towards every human being, is counted folly in comparison with that spirit of vindictiveness and self-aggrandizement which turns our earth into an image of the abodes of the damned. How long will the friends of humanity, of religion, of Christ, silently, passively, uncomplainingly, suffer the men of this world, the ambitious, vindictive, and selfish, to array them against their brethren in conflicts which they condemn and abhor? Shall not truth, humanity, and the mild and holy spirit of Christianity find a voice to rebuke and awe the wickedness which precipitates nations into war, and to startle and awaken nations to their fearful responsibility in taking arms against the children of their Father in heaven? Prince of Peace! Saviour of men! speak in thine own voice of love, power, and fearful warning; and redeem the world, for which thou hast died, from lawless and cruel passions, from the spirit of rapine and murder, from the powers of darkness and hell!

FOOTNOTE:

[55] From a speech delivered in Boston, January 25, 1835.



SCOTLAND

EDMUND FLAGG

Scotland! There is magic in the sound. Statesmen, scholars, divines, heroes, poets! Do you want exemplars worthy of study and imitation? Where will you find them brighter than in Scotland? Where can you find them purer than in Scotland? Here, no Solon, indulging imagination, has pictured the perfectibility of man; no Lycurgus, viewing him through the medium of human frailty alone, has left for his government an iron code, graven on eternal adamant; no Plato, dreaming in the luxurious gardens of the Academy, has fancied what he should be, and bequeathed a republic of love; but sages, knowing his weakness, have appealed to his understanding, cherished his virtues, and chastised his vices.

Friends of learning! would you do homage at the shrine of literature? would you visit her clearest founts? Go to Scotland! Are you philosophers, seeking to explore the hidden mysteries of mind? Bend to the genius of Stewart. Student, merchant, or mechanic! do you seek usefulness? Consult the pages of Black and of Adam Smith. Grave barrister! would you know the law, the true, sole expression of the people's will? There stands the mighty Mansfield.

Do we look for high examples of noble daring? Where shall we find them brighter than in Scotland? From the "bonny highland heather" of her lofty summits, to the modest lily of the vale, not a flower but has blushed with patriot blood. From the proud foaming crest of the Solway, to the calm, polished breast of Loch Katrine, not a river, not a lake, but has swelled with the life tide of freedom. Would you witness greatness? Contemplate a Wallace and a Bruce. They fought not for honors, for party, for conquest; 'twas for their country and their country's good, religion, law, and liberty.



SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for extended address than there was at first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. On the occasion corresponding to this, four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it; all sought to avoid it.

While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it with war, seeking to dissolve the Union and divide the effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came. One eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding.

Both read the same Bible and prayed to the same God, and each invoked His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purpose.

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still must it be said that "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.



SLAVERY AND THE UNION[56]

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

We have made a good beginning here to-day. While extremists may find some fault with our moderation they should recollect that "the battle is not always to the strong nor the race to the swift." In grave emergencies moderation is generally safer than radicalism; and as this struggle is likely to be long and earnest we must not, by our action, repel any who are in sympathy with us, but rather win all that we can to our standard. Our friends who urge an appeal to arms with so much force and eloquence should recollect that the government is arrayed against us and that the numbers are now arrayed against us as well and we should repel friends rather than gain them by anything savoring of revolutionary methods.

As it now stands we must appeal to the sober sense and patriotism of the people. We will make converts day by day; we will grow strong by calmness and moderation; we will grow strong by the violence and injustice of our adversaries. And, unless truth be a mockery and justice a hollow lie, we will be in the majority after a while, and then the revolution which we will accomplish will be none the less radical from being the result of pacific measures. The battle of freedom is to be fought out on principle. Slavery is a violation of eternal right. We have temporized with it from the necessities of our condition; but as sure as God reigns and school children read, that foul lie can never be consecrated into God's hallowed truth!

One great trouble in the matter is that slavery is an insidious and crafty power, and gains equally by open violence of the brutal as well as by sly management of the peaceful. Once let slavery get planted in a locality, by ever so weak or doubtful a title, and in ever so small numbers, and it is like the Canada thistle, you can't root it out. You yourself may detest slavery; but your neighbor has five or six slaves, and he is an excellent neighbor, or your son has married his daughter, and they beg you to help save their property, and you vote against your interest and principles to accommodate a neighbor, hoping that your vote will be on the losing side. And others do the same; and in those ways slavery gets a sure foothold. And when that is done the whole mighty Union—the force of the Nation—is committed to its support.

It is a very strange thing, and not solvable by any moral law that I know of, that if a man loses his horses the whole country will turn out to help hang the thief; but if a man a shade or two darker than I am is himself stolen the same crowd will hang one who aids in restoring him to liberty. Such are the inconsistencies of slavery, where a horse is more sacred than a man; and the essence of squatter or popular sovereignty—I don't care how you call it—is that if one man chooses to make a slave of another no third man shall be allowed to object. And if you can do this in free Kansas, and it is allowed to stand, the next thing you will see is shiploads of negroes from Africa at the wharf at Charleston; for one thing is as truly lawful as the other; and these are the notions we have got to stamp out, else they will stamp us out. But we cannot be free men if this is, by our national choice, to be a land of slavery. Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and, under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it.

The conclusion of all this is that we must restore the Missouri Compromise. We must highly resolve that Kansas must be free! We must reinstate the birthday promise of the Republic; we must reaffirm the Declaration of Independence; we must make good in essence as well as in form Madison's avowal that "the word slave ought not to appear in the Constitution"; and we must even go further, and decree that only local law, and not that time-honored instrument, shall shelter a slaveholder. We must make this a land of liberty in fact, as it is in name. But in seeking to attain these results, so indispensable if the liberty which is our pride and boast shall endure, we will be loyal to the Constitution and to the "flag of our Union," and no matter what our grievance, even though Kansas shall come in as a slave State; and no matter what theirs, even if we shall restore the compromise, we will say to the Southern disunionists, We won't go out of the Union, and you shan't!

But let us, meanwhile, appeal to the sense and patriotism of the people, and not to their prejudices; let us spread the floods of enthusiasm here aroused all over the vast prairies so suggestive of freedom. There is both a power and a magic in popular opinion. To that let us now appeal; and while, in all probability, no resort to force will be needed, our moderation and forbearance will stand us in good stead when, if ever, we must make an appeal to battle and to the God of hosts!

FOOTNOTE:

[56] From the celebrated "last speech," made at Bloomington, Ill., May 29, 1856.



SUBJUGATION OF THE FILIPINO[57]

GEORGE F. HOAR

The American people have got this one question to answer. They may answer it now; they can take ten years, or twenty years, or a generation, or a century to think of it. But it will not down. They must answer it in the end: Can you lawfully buy with money or get by brute force of arms the right to hold in subjugation an unwilling people and to impose on them such constitution as you, and not they, think best for them?

The question will be answered soberly and deliberately and quietly as the American people are wont to answer great questions of duty. It will be answered, not in any turbulent assembly, amid shouting and clapping of hands and stamping of feet. It will be answered in the churches and in the schools and in the colleges, it will be answered in fifteen million American homes, and it will be answered as it has always been answered. It will be answered right.

I have sometimes fancied that we might erect here in the capital of the country a column to American liberty which alone might rival in height the beautiful and simple shaft which we have erected to the fame of the father of the country. I can fancy each generation bringing its inscription, which should recite its own contribution to the great structure of which the column should be but the symbol.

The generation of the Puritan and the Pilgrim and the Huguenot claims the place of honor at the base. "I brought the torch of freedom across the sea. I cleared the forest. I subdued the savage and the wild beast. I laid in Christian liberty and law the foundations of empire. I left the seashore to penetrate the wilderness. I planted schools and colleges and courts and churches. I stood by the side of England on many a hard-fought field. I helped humble the power of France. I saw the lilies go down before the lion at Louisburg and Quebec. I carried the cross of St. George in triumph in Martinique and Havana."

Then comes the generation of the revolutionary time. "I encountered the power of England. I declared and won the independence of my country. I placed that declaration on the eternal principles of justice and righteousness, which all mankind have read, and on which all mankind will one day stand. I affirmed the dignity of human nature and the right of the people to govern themselves. I created the Supreme Court and the Senate. For the first time in history I made the right of the people to govern themselves safe, and established institutions for that end which will endure forever."

The next generation says, "I encountered England again. I vindicated the right of an American ship to sail the seas the wide world over without molestation. I made the American sailor as safe at the ends of the earth as my fathers had made the American farmer safe in his home. I proclaimed the Monroe Doctrine in the face of the Holy Alliance, under which sixteen republics have joined the family of nations. I filled the western hemisphere with republics from the lakes to Cape Horn, each controlling its own destiny in safety and in honor."

Then comes the next generation: "I did the mighty deeds which in your younger years you saw and which your fathers told. I saved the Union. I put down the rebellion. I freed the slave. I made of every slave a free man and of every free man a citizen and of every citizen a voter. I paid the debt. I brought in conciliation and peace instead of war. I devised the homestead system. I covered the prairie and the plain with happy homes and with mighty states. I crossed the continent and joined together the seas with my great railroads. I declared the manufacturing independence of America, as my fathers affirmed its political independence. I made my country the richest, freest, strongest, happiest people on the face of the earth."

And now what have we to say? Are we to have a place in that honorable company? Must we engrave on that column, "We repealed the Declaration of Independence. We changed the Monroe doctrine from a doctrine of eternal righteousness and justice, resting on the consent of the governed, to a doctrine of brutal selfishness, looking only to our own advantage. We crushed the only republic in Asia. We made war on the only Christian people in the East. We converted a war of glory to a war of shame. We vulgarized the American flag. We introduced perfidy into the practice of war. We inflicted torture on unarmed men to extort confession. We established reconcentrado camps. We devastated provinces. We baffled the aspirations of a people for liberty?"

No, Mr. President, never! never! Other and better counsels will yet prevail. The hours are long in the life of a great people. The irrevocable step is not yet taken. Let us at least have this to say, "We, too, have kept the faith of the fathers. We took Cuba by the hand. We delivered her from her age-long bondage. We welcomed her to the family of nations. We set mankind an example never beheld before of moderation in victory. We led hesitating and halting Europe to the deliverance of their beleaguered ambassadors in China. We marched through a hostile country, a country cruel and barbarous, without anger or revenge. We returned benefit for injury, and pity for cruelty. We made the name of America beloved in the East as in the West. We kept faith with the Filipino people. We kept faith with our own destiny. We kept our national honor unsullied. The flag which we received without a rent we handed down without a stain!"

FOOTNOTE:

[57] United States Senate, May 22, 1902.



SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS

EDWARD EVERETT

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,—weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea?—was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?



TO ARMS

LOUIS KOSSUTH

Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself all the noble blood already shed is in vain. People of Hungary, will you die under the exterminating sword of the Russians? If not, defend yourselves. Will you look on while the Kossacks of the far north tread under foot the bodies of your fathers, mothers, wives and children? If not, defend yourselves. Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens sent to the wilds of Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under the murderous knout? If not, defend yourselves. Will you behold your villages in flames, and your harvests destroyed? Will you die of hunger on the land which your sweat has made fertile? If not, defend yourselves.



TRUE AMERICAN PATRIOTISM[58]

BOURKE COCKRAN

The American patriot is the soldier of civilization. One hundred years ago the republic was first born, but the roots from which it sprung grew and flourished for centuries. The beginning of republicanism is not of American origin nor of any one country or nation of the world. The beginning of republicanism was not upon this soil but upon the soil trodden by the Lord. It was not first announced by the booming of the cannon and the pealing of the liberty bell, but when the star of Bethlehem shone over the place where the new-born babe was in the manger and the songs of the angels told of "Peace on earth, good will toward men."

This right is the crowning glory of man's progress. It is the natural attitude of Christian civilization. A government based upon the equality of all men before the law is based upon the principle of equality of all men in the sight of God. Democracy is Christianity applied to civilization. From the very moment the Savior of mankind told his disciples to go forth and preach his word it became unavoidable that the triumphs of Christianity would mean the destruction of every form of government based upon inequality of man. The first champions of freedom were the apostles who preached the word of Christ. The advent of feudalism in Europe seemed as if a dark night had set over the face of the world. Man had conquered territory by the sword and was forced to defend it by the torch. In the face of that condition of civilization Christianity proceeded to teach the doctrine that the weak and strong were equal in the sight of heaven.

Columbus was the natural outcome of conditions which had been in course of preparation for years. The Old World, with its prejudices and barbarism, was unfit for the planting of the germ of freedom, and so Providence guided the bark of Columbus to the shores of America. Here the tree of liberty was planted under circumstances which encouraged its growth and insured its life. Nowhere is the providence of God more visible. Here was the virgin soil to be conquered. Here were forests to be felled; a strong arm was of more use in cutting down a tree than the lineage of a thousand years. The value of the settler was not the blood which flowed in his veins, but the power of his muscles and the strength of his will. Then the dignity of labor was raised to a pitch unknown to this world. They did not come here to enrich themselves with gold. They did not come here to plunder the soil and return to Spain to spend the proceeds in riot. They were men in whose hearts liberty never died. They sought this continent that they might create liberty, and they did it. Their labor was fruitful.

FOOTNOTE:

[58] Auditorium, Chicago, April 30, 1894. By permission of the author.



A VISION OF WAR[59]

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL

The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and kisses—divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead.

FOOTNOTE:

[59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell.



WAR IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY[60]

EDWIN D. MEAD

It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it. The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view of progress.

We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering. Yes, surely one would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the century before, and of the century before that.

What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored—and this is the significant thing—more than such events were ever deplored before. The body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth, and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway—they or their successors—in France fighting at Crecy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars between France and other nations. There were civil wars and religious wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the natural condition of things.

All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy, will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet of peace.

FOOTNOTE:

[60] By permission of the author.



GEORGE WASHINGTON[61]

CHARLES PHILLIPS

It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, yet when the storm passed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us!

In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications of some single qualification. Caesar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and like the lovely chef d'oeuvre of the Grecian artist, to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained it, victory returned it.

If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created?

"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage? All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!"

Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism!

I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast,

"The immortal memory of George Washington."

FOOTNOTE:

[61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland, given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio.



IV

GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC



A BOY'S MOTHER[62]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

My mother she's so good to me Ef I was good as I could be, I couldn't be as good—no, sir! Can't any boy be good as her!

She loves me when I'm glad er mad; She loves me when I'm good er bad; An' what's a funniest thing, she says She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me; That don't hurt, but it hurts to see Her cryin'—nen I cry; an' nen We both cry—an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts and sews My little cloak and Sunday clothes; An' when my pa comes home to tea, She loves him most as much as me.

She laughs an' tells him all I said. An' grabs me up an' pats my head; An' I hug her, an' I hug my pa, An' love him purt' nigh much es ma.

FOOTNOTE:

[62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900.



ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE[63]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! I'm got ear-ache, an' ma can't make It quit a-tall; An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball An' puncture it; an' Sis she take An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor An' loozed it—blame it all! But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

An' Aunt Mame wrote she's a-comin', an' she can't— Folks is come there!—An' I don't care, She is my Aunt! An' my eyes stings; an' I'm Ist coughin' all the time, An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore Granpa felt where, an' he Says "maybe it's pleurasy!" But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

An' I climbed up an' nen falled off the fence, An' Herbert he ist laugh at me! An' my fi'-cents It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore Purt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to git It out—nen smash it!—An it's in there yit! But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

Oo! I'm so wickud!—An' my breath's so hot— Ist like I run an' don't rest none But ist run on when I ought to not; Yes, an' my chin An' lip's all warpy, an' my teeth's so fast, An' 's a place in my throat I can't swaller past— An' they all hurt so!— An' oh, my—oh! I'm a-startin' a'gin— I'm a-startin ag'in, but I won't, fer shore!— I ist ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!

FOOTNOTE:

[63] Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903.



BREAKING THE CHARM[64]

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Caught Susanner whistlin'; well, It's most nigh too good to tell. 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see Ef it hadn't b'en fur me, Comin' up so soft an' sly That she didn' hear me nigh. I was pokin' round that day, An' ez I come down the way, First her whistle strikes my ears,— Then her gingham dress appears; So with soft step up I slips. Oh, them dewy, rosy lips! Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, Puckered up to make the sound. She was lookin' in the spring, Whistlin' to beat anything,— "Kitty Dale" er "In the sweet." I was just so mortal beat That I can't quite ricoleck What the toon was, but I 'speck 'Twas some hymn er other, fur Hymny things is jest like her. Well she went on fur awhile With her face all in a smile, An' I never moved, but stood Stiller'n a piece o' wood— Wouldn't wink ner wouldn't stir, But a-gazin' right at her, Tell she turns an' sees me—my! Thought at first she'd try to fly. But she blushed an' stood her ground. Then, a-slyly lookin' round, She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?" "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," Says I, lookin' awful stern. Then the red commenced to burn In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la! Reddest red you ever saw— Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. You'd a' noticed in a glance She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart; But she looked so sweet an' peart, That a idee struck my head; So I up an' slowly said: "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, Jest one thing'll break the charm." "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I, "I don't like to tell you." "Why?" Says Susanner. "Well, you see It would kinder fall on me." Course I knowed that she'd insist,— So I says: "You must be kissed By the man that heard you whistle; Everybody says that this'll Break the charm and set you free From the threat'nin' penalty." She was blushin' fit to kill, But she answered, kinder still: "I don't want to have no harm, Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." Did I break that charm?—oh, well, There's some things I mustn't tell. I remember, afterwhile, Her a-sayin' with a smile: "Oh, you quit,—you sassy dunce, You jest caught me whistlin' once."

FOOTNOTE:

[64] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co.



CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME[65]

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

When I come in f'om de co'n-fiel' aftah wukin' ha'd all day, It's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way; An' it's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot, An' it's fine to see de meat a-sizzlin' teasin'-lak an' hot.

But when suppah time is ovah an' de things is cl'ared away, Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' ob de day. When my co'n-cob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime, My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it's candle-lightin' time."

Den de chillun snuggle up to me and all commence to call, "Oh, say, daddy, now it's time to make de shadders on de wall." So I puts my han's togethah—evah daddy knows de way— An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' es I begin to say,

"Fus thing, hyeah come mistah Rabbit, don' you see him wuk his eahs? Huh uh! dis mus' be a donky; look how innercent he 'pears! Dah's de ole black swan a-swimmin', ain't she got a' awfu' neck? Who's dis feller dat's a-comin'? why, dat's ole dog Tray I 'spec!"

Dat's de way I run on, tryin' fer to please 'em all I can; Den I hollahs, "Now be keerful, dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man!" An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered—dey's lettin' on, But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone.

So I jes' takes up my banjo an' I plays a little chune, An' you see dem hai'ds come peepin' out to listen mighty soon. Den my wife say, "Sich a pappy fer to give you sich a fright! Jes' you go to bed, an' leave him, say yo' prayers, an' say good night."

FOOTNOTE:

[65] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of Lowly Life," 1896.



A BIRD IN THE HAND

F. E. WEATHERLY

There were three young maids of Lee, And they were fair as fair can be; And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord not rich enough, And one's too poor, and one too tall, And one an inch too short for them all. "Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait," said these maids of Lee.

There were three young maids of Lee, And they were fair as fair can be; And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be; And one is deaf, and one can't see, And they all are cross as a gallows tree, These three old maids of Lee.

Now, if any one chanced—'tis a chance remote— One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf, and one can't see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be; He may take the one or the two or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee.

There are three old maids at Lee, And they are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be, To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee!



"THE DAY OF JUDGMENT"[66]

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS

I am thirteen years old and Jill is eleven and a quarter. Jill is my brother. That isn't his name, you know; his name is Timothy and mine is George Zacharias; but they call us Jack and Jill.

Well, Jill and I had an invitation to Aunt John's this summer, and that was how we happened to be there.

I'd rather go to Aunt John's than any place in the world. When I was a little fellow I used to think I'd rather go to Aunt John's than to Heaven. But I never dared to tell.

She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played out—at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along—