so heavenly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know she went out on the other train, which never stopped at the poorhouse.

OPPORTUNITY TO LABOR

BY THOMAS BRACKETT REED, Lawyer, Statesman; Member of Congress from Maine, 1877-99. Speaker of the 51st, 54th, and 55th Congresses. Born in Portland, Me., 1839; resides in New York, N. Y. From an address delivered at Old Orchard, Me., August 25, 1896. See Portland Daily Press, Aug. 27, 1896.

What seemed the great primeval curse that in the sweat of his face should man eat bread has been found, in the wider view of the great cycles of the Almighty, to be the foundation of all sound hope, all sure progress, and all permanent power. Man no longer shuns labor as his deadliest foe, but welcomes it as his dearest friend. Nations no longer dream of riches as the spoils of war, but as the fruits of human energy directed by wise laws and encouraged by peace and good will. Battlements and forts and castles, armies and navies, are day by day less and less the enginery of slaughter, and more and more the guarantee of peace with honor. What the world longs for now is not the pageantry and devastation of war for the aggrandizement of the few, but the full utilization of all human energy for the benefit of all mankind.

Give us but the opportunity to labor, and the whole world of human life will burst into tree and flower.

To the seventy-five millions of people who make up this great Republic, the opportunity to labor means more than to all the world besides. It means the development of resources great beyond the comprehension of any mortal, and the diffusion among all of the riches to which the glories of "The Arabian Nights" are but the glitter of the pawnshop, and to which the sheen of all the jewels of this earth are but the gleam of the glowworm in the pallor of the dawn.

To develop our great resources, it is the one prime necessity that all our people should be at work, that all the brain and muscle should be in harmonious action, united in their endeavors to utilize the great forces of nature and to make wealth out of senseless matter and out of all the life which begins with the cradle and ends with the grave, and out of all the powers which ebb and flow in the tides of the ocean, in the rush of the rivers, and out of the great energies which are locked up in the bosom of the earth.

THE BENEDICTION

By FRANÇOIS COPPÉE, Poet, Dramatist. Born in Paris, France, 1842.

It was in eighteen hundred-yes—and nine,

That we took Saragossa. What a day
Of untold horrors! I was sergeant then.
The city carried, we laid siege to the houses,

All shut up close, and with a treacherous look,
Raining down shots upon us from the windows.
""Tis the priests' doing!" was the word passed round;
So that although since daybreak under arms,
Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths
Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends-piff! piff!
Rattled the musketry with ready aim,

If shovel hat and long black coat were seen
Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street
My company worked on. I kept an eye
On every house-top, right and left, and saw
From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth,
Coloring the sky, as from the chimney-tops
Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped,
Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out,
With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers
Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound,

In such a dangerous defile, not to leave

Foes lurking in our rear.

There was no drum-beat,

No ordered march.

Our officers looked grave;

The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows
As do recruits when flinching.

All at once,

Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French
With cries for help. At double-quick we join
Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers,
A gallant company, but beaten back

Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square
Twenty stalwart monks

Fronting a convent.

Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns,
The cross in white embroidered on their frocks,
Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons
Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished

Our men went down before them. By platoons
Firing we swept the place; in fact, we slaughtered
This terrible group of heroes, no more soul
Being in us than in executioners.

The incense

The foul deed done-deliberately done-
And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted,
Under the huddled masses of the dead,
Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps;
While in the background solemnly the church
Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in.
It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred
The inner gloom with points of gold.
Gave out its perfume. At the upper end,
Turned to the altar, as though unconcerned
In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest,
White-haired and tall of stature, to a close
Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped
Upon my memory is that thrilling scene,
That, as I speak, it comes before me now—
The convent, built in old time by the Moors;
The huge, brown corpses of the monks; the sun

Making the red blood on the pavement steam;

And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest;
And there the altar, brilliant as a shrine;

And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating,
Almost afraid.

I, certes, in those days

Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record
That once, by way of sacrilegious joke,

A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe

At a wax candle burning on the altar.

This time, however, I was awed-so blanched
Was that old man!

Not a soul budged.

66

Shoot him!'

our captain cried. The priest beyond all doubt

Heard; but, as though he heard not, turning round, He faced us with the elevated Host,

Having that period of the service reached

When on the faithful benediction falls.

His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings;

And as he raised the pyx, and in the air

With it described the cross, each man of us

Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling
Than if before him the devout were ranged.

But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice,
The words came to us-

Deus Omnipotens !

Vos benedicat!

The captain's order

Rang out again and sharply, "Shoot him down,
Or I shall swear!"' Then one of ours, a dastard,

Leveled his gun and fired. Upstanding still,

The priest changed color, though with steadfast look Set upwards, and indomitably stern.

Pater et Filius!

Came the words.

What frenzy,

What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks

Another shot, I know not; but 'twas done.
The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge,
Held himself up; and strenuous to complete
His benediction, in the other raised

The consecrated Host. For the third time
Tracing in the air the symbol of forgiveness,
With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low,
But in the general hush distinctly heard,

Et Sanctus Spiritus !

He said; and ending

His service, fell down dead.

SPARTACUS TO THE ROMAN ENVOYS

By EPES SARGENT, Editor, Author, Poet. Born in Gloucester, Mass., 1813; died in Boston, Mass., 1880.

Envoys of Rome, the poor camp of Spartacus is too much honored by your presence. And does Rome stop to parley with the escaped gladiator, with the rebel ruffian, for whom heretofore no slight has been too scornful? You have come, with steel in your right hand, and with gold in your left. What heed we give the former, ask Cossinius; ask Claudius; ask Varinius; ask the bones of your legions that fertilize the Lucanian plains. And for your gold—would ye know what we do with that,—go ask the laborer, the trodden poor, the helpless and the hopeless, on our route; ask all whom Roman tyranny had crushed, or Roman avarice plundered. Ye have seen me before; but ye did not then shun my glance as now. Ye have seen me in the arena, when I was Rome's pet ruffian, daily smeared with blood of men or beasts. One day-shall I forget it ever ?—ye were

present;—I had fought long and well. Exhausted as I was, your munerator, your lord of the games, bethought him, it were an equal match to set against me a new man, younger and lighter than I, but fresh and valiant. With Thracian sword and buckler, forth he came, a beautiful defiance on