untutored mind; no compass, except his own undisciplined will; no light, save light from Heaven; yet, like the caravel of Columbus, struggling on and on through the trough of the sea, always toward the destined land. I see the fullgrown man, stalwart and brave, an athlete in activity of movement and strength of limb, yet vexed by weird dreams and visions; of life, of love, of religion, sometimes verging on despair. I see the mind, grown as robust as the body, throw off these phantoms of the imagination and give itself to the practical uses of this work-a-day world; the rearing of children; the earning of bread; the cumulous duties of the husband, the father, and the citizen. I see the party leader, self-confident in conscious rectitude; original, because it was not his nature to follow; potent, because he was fearless, pursuing his convictions with earnest zeal, and urging them upon his fellows with the resources of an oratory which was hardly more impressive than it was many-sided. I see him, the preferred among his fellows, ascend to the eminence ordained for him, and him alone among the statesmen of the time, amid the derision of opponents and the distrust of supporters, yet unawed and unmoved, because thoroughly equipped to meet the emergency. The same being, from first to last; the little boy weeping over a dead mother; the great chief sobbing amid the cruel horrors of war; flinching not from duty, nor changing his lifelong ways of dealing with the stern realities which pressed upon him and hurried him forward. And, last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, I see him lying dead there in the capitol of the nation, to which he had rendered "the last, full measure of his devotion," the flag of his country wrapped about him, and the world in mourning at his feet. Surely, he was one of God's elect; not in any sense a creature of circumstance, or accident, or chance. The inspired are few. Whence their emanation, where and how they got their power, by what rule they lived, moved and had their being, we know not. There is no explication to their lives. They rose from shadow and they went in mist. We see them, feel them, but we know them not. They came, God's word upon their lips; they did their office, God's mantle about them; and they vanished, God's holy light between the world and them; leaving behind a memory, half mortal and half myth. From first to last they were the creations of some special Providence. Tried by this standard, where shall we find an illustration more impressive than Abraham Lincoln, whose career might be chanted by a Greek chorus as at once the prelude and the epilogue of the most imperial theme of modern times? . . . Where did Shakespeare get his genius? Where did Mozart get his music? Whose hand smote the lyre of the Scottish plowman, and stayed the life of the German priest? God, God, and God alone; and as surely as these were raised up by God, inspired by God, was Abraham Lincoln; and a thousand years hence, no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be filled with greater wonder, or be followed by mankind with deeper feeling, than that which tells of his life and death. THE FOOL'S PRAYER By EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, Poet, Professor, Editor. Born in Windsor, Conn., 1841; died in Cleveland, Ohio, 1887. Reprinted, by special arrangement with and permission of the publishers, from "Poems by Edward Rowland Sill," copyright, 1887, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. The royal feast was done; the King 66 The jester doffed his cap and bells "No pity, Lord, could change the heart "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep We hold the earth from heaven away. These clumsy feet, still in the mire, "The ill-timed truth we might have keptWho knows how sharp it pierced and stung ? The word we had not sense to say Who knows how grandly it had rung? 66 Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders-oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 66 'Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!' The room was hushed; in silence rose THE MAN WHO WEARS THE BUTTON By JOHN MELLEN Thurston, Lawyer; Senator from Nebraska, 1895—. Born at Montpelier, Vt., 1847. From an address at a banquet of the Michigan Club of Detroit, February 21, 1890. Sometimes in passing along the street I meet a man who, in the left lapel of his coat, wears a little, plain, modest, unassuming bronze button. The coat is often old and rusty; the face above it seamed and furrowed by the toil and suffering of adverse years; perhaps beside it hangs an empty sleeve, and below it stumps a wooden peg. But when I meet the man who wears that button I doff my hat and stand uncovered in his presence-yea! to me the very dust his weary foot has pressed is holy ground, for I know that man, in the dark hour of the nation's peril, bared his breast to the hell of battle to keep the flag of our country in the Union sky. Maybe at Donaldson he reached the inner trench; at Shiloh held the broken line; at Chattanooga climbed the flame-swept hill, or stormed the clouds on Lookout Heights. He was not born or bred to soldier life. His country's summons called him from the plow, the forge, the bench, the loom, the mine, the store, the office, the college, the sanctuary. He did not fight for greed of gold, to find adventure, or to win renown. He loved the peace of quiet ways, and yet he broke the clasp of clinging arms, turned from the witching glance of tender eyes, left good-by kisses upon tiny lips to look death in the face on desperate fields. And when the war was over he quietly took up the broken threads of love and life as best he could, a better citizen for having been so good a soldier. What mighty men have worn this same bronze button! Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Logan, and an hundred more, whose names are written on the title-page of deathless fame. Their glorious victories are known of men; the history of How many their country gives them voice; the white light of publicity illuminates them for every eye. But there are thousands who, in humbler way, no less deserve applause. knightliest acts of chivalry were never seen beyond the line or heard of above the roar of battle. God bless the men who wore the button! They pinned the stars of Union in the azure of our flag with bayonets, and made atonement for a nation's sin in blood. They took the negro from the auction-block and at the altar of emancipation crowned him-citizen. They supplemented "Yankee Doodle" with "Glory Hallelujah," and Yorktown with Appomatox. Their powder woke the morn of universal freedom and made the name "American" first in all the earth. To us their memory is an inspiration and to the future it is hope. LIBERTY AND UNION By DANIEL WEBSTER, Lawyer, Statesman; Member of Congress from New Hampshire, 1813–17; from Massachusetts, 1823-27; Senator from Massachusetts, 1827-41, 1845-50; Secretary of State, 1841-43. Born in Salisbury, N. H., 1782; died in Marshfield, Mass., 1852. From "The Second Speech on Foot's Resolution," delivered in the Senate, January 26, 1830. See "The Works of Daniel Webster," Vol. III, published by Little, Brown & Co., Boston, Mass. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life, Every year of its duration has |