this hour, and, generations hence some future son of the South, standing where I stand, in the midst of our legitimate successors, will bless, and praise, and thank God that he, too, can say of them, as I of you, and of all around methese, these are my brethren, and oh! this, this, too, is my country!

THE PURITAN SABBATH

By HENRY VAN DYKE, Clergyman, Professor, Author, Poet; Pastor Brick Presbyterian Church, New York, 1882-99; Professor of English, Princeton University, 1899-.

From an address made at the annual banquet of the New England Society in New York City, Dec. 23, 1895; the anniversary having been postponed because Forefathers' Day that year fell on a Sunday. See New York Tribune, Dec. 24, 1895.

The Puritan fenced in his Sabbath with a wall of iron. We do not altogether admire the architecture of that wall; but let us never forget that within it were sheltered, through stormy centuries, three inestimable treasures-the sanctity of human rest, as well as of human labor; the peace and order of the Puritan household, and the dignity and simplicity of common worship. Let us never forget that out of that sacred enclosure issued the men and women, trained and solidified by self-restraint and sober discipline, who were to be the very backbone of the permanent morality of this nation...

There is no question of the day, it seems to me, that comes closer to the life of the people and affects our future welfare more deeply than the Sunday question, with all that it involves of personal liberty, civic order, the rights of labor, and the freedom of conscience. In order to settle it, we must free our minds from cant; the cant of politics and the cant of religion. We must recognize the difference between the American Sunday and the Puritan Sabbath. The one is a day of restraint, the other is a day of liberty. The one is a religious observance, the other is a humane institution.

We ought not to confuse them, nor attempt to reconcile them by compromise. Compromise in matters of principle is always a failure.

For those who believe in the substance of the Puritan Sabbath as a day of religious devotion, needful for the Christian life, to give up their private convictions and change their personal practice to conform to a passing fashion, is to make a false compromise. For those who believe in the American Sunday as a day of secular rest, needful for the national life, to narrow its liberty and imperil its security by overloading it with restrictions and attempting to change it into a day of forced religion, is to make a false compromise. Clear and distinct, the two days stand side by side; or, to speak more truly, circle within circle, sphere within sphere. The day of universal repose spreads like a fair, well-ordered garden, in whose pleasant ways the burdens of toil and the strifes of competition shall be laid aside, and all men shall be free to rest and refresh themselves in common joy and brotherly regard. Within that garden, protected by its beautiful peace, stands the day of divine worship, like a shining temple, into which none shall be compelled, but all shall be invited, to enter. There they will learn that the deepest rest comes through adoration, the strongest refreshment is drawn from faith, and the sweetest music is that which praises God.

Gentlemen, let us maintain the liberty of the garden, and let us use our own liberty to preserve the sanctity of the temple. Many of the outward forms of the Puritan Sabbath have passed away; but God grant that its spirit and substance may never vanish from our hearts and homes. What memories haunt our souls so strong, so precious, as those that come down to us from its morning hour of prayer around the household altar, its noontide hour of worship in the quiet house of God, its evening hour of music in the home, where voices long since fallen in silence joined in the sweet songs of Zion? All our lives long we shall remember

these things, and the remembrance will make us better, braver, more loyal and more steadfast men.

And shall our children have no such memories? Shall they look back from the coming conflict and turmoil of the twentieth century into homes where there was a Sunday but no Sabbath? Nay, will you not rather restore to your domestic and social life the potency and promise of your true Forefathers' Day? And will you not add to it the milder but no less sacred influence of that other day, so near at hand, which my forefathers reverenced and cherished, the day of St. Nicholas, the merry Christmas Day? There is no discord between them, but harmony and concord. Before the ancient temple at Jerusalem there stood two pillars, Jachin and Boaz, wreathed with lily-work and carven with pomegranites. So let these two memorial days stand at the doorway of our houses, like shining, steadfast columns, which never shall be removed, the Sabbath Day and Christmas Day, emblem of loyal faith and self-restraint, emblem of joyous hope and glad good-will to all, upholding with undesecrated purity and undiminished strength

"The homely beauty of the good old cause,

Our peace, our fearful innocence.

And pure religion breathing household laws."

From the shelter of such holy homes a new manhood shall come forth; serene, thoughtful, peaceful; prepared and able to defend the nation's honor, which is righteousness, and to preserve the nation's glory, which is peace.

THE ASSAULT ON FORT WAGNER

By ANNA ELIZABETH DICKINSON, Lecturer, Novelist, Playwright. Born in Philadelphia, 1842.

Through the whole afternoon there had been a tremendous cannonading of the fort from the gunboats and the land forces; the smooth, regular engineer lines were broken, and the fresh-sodded embankments torn and roughened by the unceasing rain of shot and shell. About six o'clock there came moving up the island, over the burning sands and under the burning sky, a stalwart, splendid-appearing set of men, who looked equal to any daring, and capable of any heroism, -men whom nothing could daunt and few things subdue. As this regiment, the famous Fifty-fourth, came up the island to take its place at the head of the storming party in the assault on Wagner, it was cheered on all sides by the white soldiers, who recognized and honored the heroism which it had already shown, and of which it was to give such new and sublime proof.

The evening, or rather the afternoon, was a lurid, sultry one. Great masses of clouds, heavy and black, were piled in the western sky, fringed here and there by an angry red, and torn by vivid streams of lightning. Not a breath of wind shook the leaves or stirred the high, rank grass by the water-side; a portentous and awful stillness filled the airthe stillness felt by nature before a devastating storm. Quiet, with the like awful and portentous calm, the black regiment, headed by its young, fair-haired, knightly colonel, marched to its destined place and action.

Here the men were addressed in a few brief and burning words by their heroic commander. Here they were besought to glorify their whole race by the luster of their deeds; here their faces shone with a look which said: "Though men, we are ready to do deeds, to achieve triumphs, worthy of the gods!" Here the word of command was given: “We

are ordered and expected to take Battery Wagner at the point of the bayonet. Are you ready?

And the order

"Ay, Ay, sir! ready! was the answer. went pealing down the line: "Ready! Close ranks! Charge bayonets! Forward! Double-quick, march!"—and away they went under a scattering fire in one compact line till within one hundred feet of the fort, when the storm of death broke upon them.

Every gun belched forth its great shot and shell; every rifle whizzed out its sharp-singing, death-freighted messenger. The men wavered not for an instant; forward-forward they went; plunged into the ditch; waded through the deep water, no longer of a muddy hue, but stained crimson with their blood, and commenced to climb the parapet. The foremost line fell and then the next and the next. On, over the piled-up mounds of dead and dying, of wounded and slain, to the mouth of the battery; seizing the guns; bayoneting the gunners at their posts; planting their flag and struggling around it; their leader on the walls, sword in hand, his blue eyes blazing, his fair face aflame, his clear voice calling out: "Forward, my brave boys!"-then plunging into the hell of battle before him.

As the men were clambering up the parapet, their colorsergeant was shot dead, the colors trailing, stained and wet, in the dust beside him. A nameless hero sprang from the ranks, seized the staff from his dying hand, and with it mounted upward. A ball struck his right arm; but ere it could fall shattered by his side, his left hand caught the flag and carried it onward. Even in the mad sweep of assault and death, the men around him found breath and time to hurrah, and those behind him pressed more gallantly forward to follow such a lead. He kept in his place the colors flying (though faint with loss of blood and wrung with agony) up the slippery steep, up to the walls of the fort; on the wall itself, planting the flag where the men made their brief, splendid stand, and melted away like snow before furnace