SCOTLAND

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

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

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 "bonnyhighland 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.

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 inthe 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.

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 Canadathistle, 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 sheltera 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.

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

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 schoolsand 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 Americansailor 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 agreat 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.

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

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. Isee 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?

Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself allthe 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.

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 ofChristianity 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.

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

The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds ofpreparation, 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 tornwith 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.

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

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 Crécy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars between France andother 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.

[60]By permission of the author.

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. Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and like the lovelychef d'œuvreof 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 thecommand. 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!"

"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.

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

My mother she's so good to meEf 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 saysShe loves me when she punishes.I don't like her to punish me;That don't hurt, but it hurts to seeHer cryin'—nen I cry; an' nenWe both cry—an' be good again.She loves me when she cuts and sewsMy 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.

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

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 saysShe loves me when she punishes.

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 seeHer cryin'—nen I cry; an' nenWe both cry—an' be good again.

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

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.

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.

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

I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!I'm got ear-ache, an' ma can't makeIt quit a-tall;An' Carlo bite my rubber-ballAn' puncture it; an' Sis she takeAn' poke my knife down through the stable-floorAn' 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'mIst coughin' all the time,An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so soreGranpa felt where, an' heSays "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'-centsIt sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist torePurt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to gitIt 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 noneBut ist run on when I ought to not;Yes, an' my chinAn' 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!

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'mIst coughin' all the time,An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so soreGranpa felt where, an' heSays "maybe it's pleurasy!"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'-centsIt sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist torePurt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to gitIt out—nen smash it!—An it's in there yit!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 noneBut ist run on when I ought to not;Yes, an' my chinAn' 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!

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.

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

Caught Susanner whistlin'; well,It's most nigh too good to tell.'Twould 'a' b'en too good to seeEf it hadn't b'en fur me,Comin' up so soft an' slyThat 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 beatThat I can't quite ricoleckWhat the toon was, but I 'speck'Twas some hymn er other, furHymny things is jest like her.Well she went on fur awhileWith her face all in a smile,An' I never moved, but stoodStiller'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 burnIn them cheeks o' hern. Why, la!Reddest red you ever saw—Pineys wa'n't a circumstance.You'd a' noticed in a glanceShe 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 seeIt would kinder fall on me."Course I knowed that she'd insist,—So I says: "You must be kissedBy the man that heard you whistle;Everybody says that this'llBreak the charm and set you freeFrom 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."

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."

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