THE COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS

By WILLIAM EUSTIS RUSSELL, Lawyer, Statesman; Governor of Massachusetts, 1890-93. Born in Cambridge, Mass., 1857; died in Canada, 1896.

From a speech made at the annual festival of the New England Society in the City of New York, Dec. 22, 1893. See New York Tribune, Dec. 23, 1893.

Thomas W. Higginson in his introduction to "Speeches and Addresses of W. E. Russell," says: "No one ever heard him utter the words, 'the dear old Commonwealth,' without discovering that he has what the French call tears in his voice'; and no one can know him well without recognizing that those thrilling tones represent in this case profound feeling."

Gladly to-night when for the last time I speak for Massachusetts officially, I avail myself of the privilege of laying at her feet the humble tribute of a loving son.

One is apt to judge a State solely by evidence of her material prosperity; to think only of her acres and dollars, her population and cities, her industries and material resources. Important and great as these are, I fancy the Puritans would have called them" the outward things," and not the only or the truest test of her real strength and grandeur. Or else one thinks of her only as a great power, ever enforcing obedience to her sovereign will. To us, her

children and citizens, she is far less a governing power than a guiding, uplifting influence, ever setting before us high ideals of life and its meaning, and ever leading in great agitations for freedom and humanity. This is the real Massachusetts. To understand her, one must go back to the early days and work which to-night we commemorate.

They were wise, farseeing men who founded our colony and Commonwealth. It seemed to be given them to look down the future and to know that they were church-building and nation-building, founding institutions which were to last as long as men should fear God and love liberty.

They were serious men, these, our founders and forefathers. We laugh now at their long faces and mournful manners,

but we forget that theirs was no holiday pastime. They were not seeking how easiest to live, but how best to live "for God's glory and the Church's good." They bound Church and State together in a union which would not now be tolerated, but by their labor and sacrifices they planted, beside the Church, the school and the town-meeting, and made these the foundations for an intelligent, liberty-loving, God-fearing people.

We care not so much now for the distinctive doctrines of their faith as for the fact that they had faith; not so much for the scruples of their conscience as that for conscience sake they dared to suffer; not so much for their suffering as that in spite of it they never yielded. That was the stuff out of which to make Commonwealths that were to last; that was the warp which, wrought into the fiber of our national life, has made it strong and permanent. With all their shortcomings there was dominant in the founders a sense of duty and responsibility, a serious view of life and its work, which developed strength and character, self-reliant men and free institutions, making the basis of a State, education, piety, and self-government.

This was the beginning of Massachusetts, and this spirit ever since has marked her life. What do we owe to it? I give the Yankee answer, What do we not owe to it? Massachusetts from it gets a sturdiness of character, an independence of thought and action, a willingness to assert and fight for honest convictions, which have been her very backbone, and through her a potent influence in our national develop

ment.

You can trace this down in all our after life, in the early wars for self-defense, in the later wars for independence, and against the tyranny of foreign power, and, generations later, in our war for union and liberty. It is this which gives point and meaning to our great historic monuments. exist because of the continuity of this influence.

They

"When the tall gray shaft of Bunker Hill speaks greetings

to Memorial Hall," it is the Puritan of 1775 speaking to the Puritan of 1861, and both recalling the patriotism and character, the struggle and the sacrifices of the past, nerving us as bravely to do our duty. How well Phillips illustrated this in his plea for the preservation of the Old South meetinghouse, so dear to the New England heart. He was answering the argument that the Old South was not worth saving because it had changed in form and did not meet approved architectural standards, and he was asserting that it had a deeper meaning and a truer purpose than these outward things. "True," he said, "it has changed; it is not sightly to the eye; but when the troops went forth in '61 to fight for their country and liberty, as they passed the old building there was something within its homely walls which spoke to them. Reverently they lifted their caps, broke forth in cheers, and passed on, braver, truer men.

It was the character and soul of the Commonwealth which spoke, reminding them of her glorious past. Their cheers answered that her honor was safe in their keeping.

Through the lives of counltess noble men and women, who have been steadfast to the virtues which to-day we commemorate, Massachusetts has spoken to the world. Who doubts that the world is better for her work and her message?

THE TRAVELER'S STORY

By JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY, Poet, Story-writer. Born at Greenfield, Indiana, 1853.

Taken from "A Child-World," by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1896. Used by permission of the publishers, The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, Ind., U.S.A.

Eastward of Zanesville, two or three

Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,

I on the driver's seat, and he

Pointing out this and that to me,
On beyond us-among the rest—
A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng

Of little children, which he "guessed"

Was a picnic, as we caught their thin
High laughter, as we drove along,
Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly

He turned and asked, with a curious grin,
What were my views on Slavery? "Why?"
I asked, in return, with a wary eye.

Because," he answered, pointing his whip
At a little whitewashed house and shed
On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,
"Because there are two slaves there," he said-
"Two black slaves that I've passed each trip
For eighteen years. Though they've been set free,
They have been slaves ever since!" said he.
And, as our horses slowly drew

Nearer the little house in view,

All briefly I heard the history

Of this little old negro woman and

Her husband, house and scrap of land;

How they were slaves and had been made free

By their dying master, years ago

In old Virginia; and then had come
North here into a free State-so,

Safe forever, to found a home

For themselves alone?—for they left South there Five strong sons, who had, alas!

All been sold ere it came to pass

This first old master with his last breath

Had freed the parents.

Thus, with their freedom, and little sum
Of money left them, these two had come
North, full twenty long years ago;
And, settling there, they had hopefully
Gone to work, in their simple way,
Hauling-gardening-raising sweet
Corn, and popcorn. Bird and bee

In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree
Singing with them throughout the slow
Summer's day, with its dust and heat—

The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;
Or in autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,
And hand-made hominy might find sale
In the near town-market; or baking pies
And cakes, to range in alluring show
At the little window, where the eyes
Of the Movers' children, driving past,
Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew
Into a halt that would sometimes last
Even the space of an hour or two.
Even so had they wrought all ways

To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,-
And with what ultimate end in view?—
They were saving up money enough to be
Able, in time, to buy their own

Five children back.

Ah! the toil gone through!

And the long delays and the heartaches, too, And self-denials that they had known!

But the pride and glory that was theirs

When they first hitched up their shackly cart For the long, long journey South.

The start

In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,

With no friends gathered in grieving throng,With no farewells and favoring prayers;

But, as they creaked and jolted on,

Their chiming voices broke in song

“Hail, all hail!

Hail, all hail!

don't you see the stars a-fallin'?

I'm on my way.

Gideon am

A healin' ba'm

I belong to the blood-washed army.

Gideon am

A healin' ba'm

On my way!