Held at the fire his favored place; Born the wild northern hills among, Happy the snow-locked homes wherein Or played the athlete in the barn, Or held the good dame's winding yarn, Of classic legends rare and old, Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome Had all the commonplace of home, And little seemed at best the odds And dread Olympus at his will J. G. WHITTIER. JUSTICE. In this world, with its wild-whirling eddies and mad foam-oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in his heart. It is what the wise, in all times, were wise because they denied, and knew forever not to be. I tell thee again, there is nothing else but justice. One strong thing I find here below: the just thing, the true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing, and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton, and say, "In God's name, No!" แ Thy success!" What will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded; no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success?. In a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, dingdong of bells, or leading articles, visible or audible to thee again at all, forever. What kind of success is that? THOMAS CARLYLE. TRUE ELOQUENCE. When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It can not be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they can not compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it; they can not reach it. It comes, if it comes at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object,-this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence. It is action, noble, sublime, godlike action! DANIEL WEBSTER. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, One after another he let them pass, Under the willows and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, Only a boy! and his father had said He could never let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,— Across the clover and through the wheat, Thrice since then had the lanes been white, For news had come to the lonely farm The summer dew grew cool and late; He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,― Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind, Cropping the buttercups out of the grass— But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; Together they followed the cattle home, TO THE AMERICAN UNION. [This piece should be spoken in clear, bold tone of voice; but little action or gesture should accompany its delivery.] Giant aggregate of nations, Glorious whole of glorious parts, Unto endless generations Live united, hands and hearts! Every petty class-dissension, Heal it up as quick as thought; Fling away absurd ambition! Be above such groveling things. Were I but some scornful stranger, |