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 All shut up close, and with a treacherous look, If shovel hat and long black coat were seen 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 All at once, Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square Fronting a convent. Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns, Our men went down before them. By platoons The incense The foul deed done-deliberately done- Making the red blood on the pavement steam; And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest; And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, I, certes, in those days Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe At a wax candle burning on the altar. This time, however, I was awed-so blanched 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 But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, Deus Omnipotens ! Vos benedicat! The captain's order Rang out again and sharply, "Shoot him down, 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 consecrated Host. For the third time 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 |