towns and across the prairies-down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right.

We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields—in all the hospitals of pain—on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood-in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured.

We

We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash-we see them bound hand and foot-we hear the strokes of cruel whips-we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

Four million bodies in chains-four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father, and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free.

The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auctionblock, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died

for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF WENDELL PHILLIPS By THEODORE Dwight Weld, "a reformer of Boston, long prominent as an Abolitionist." Born 1803; died 1895.

Adapted from an address delivered at memorial services upon the seventy-fourth birthday of Wendell Phillips, November 29, 1885.

December 8, 1837, witnessed a memorable scene in Faneuil Hall. There, in the old Cradle of Liberty, a great birth was born for Freedom's trial hour. There the frenzy of a pro-slavery mob was, for the first time, confronted, and with a sublime audacity defied and whelmed in defeat; an assault as triumphant in its issue as it was daring and resistless in its victorious grapple.

The immediate occasion of that scene which immortalized anew the old Cradle of Liberty was the series of tragedies enacted by pro-slavery mobs in St. Louis, Mo., and Alton, Ill., destroying successively two printing-offices, four presses and sets of types, and murdering Lovejoy, the editor of the St. Louis Observer, who, despite threats and curses, branded slavery as sin. For this mobs hurled to destruction offices, presses, types, and editor. Pierced with five balls he lay in his blood, his murderers scoffing over him. While these atrocities were the special occasion of that Faneuil Hall meeting, its logical antecedents, grown then to a multitude, compelled those who called it to instant action.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF WENDELL PHILLIPS 329

Two years before that meeting, Wendell Phillips, from the glowing threshold of his young manhood, looked down on Boston helpless in the clutches of a mob of thousands, its mayor, aldermen, and police consenting and conniving, while law, justice, and civilization itself lay trodden in the streets. He saw William Lloyd Garrison, for words spoken against slavery, pounced upon by a mob, driven and dragged half nude through the streets of Boston, while anarchy defiant shouted over its barbarian conquest.

The hour for the meeting came; those in sympathy with its object filled the first floor: earnest, enkindled, determined, and silent, there they stood. The gallery was packed with a crowd of another sort, lawless, turbulent, fierce, bent on riot, and lowering malign upon the law-abiding phalanx below. Then in the front gallery uprose a bold-faced man and launched into a violent harangue. His whole aspect revealed the bully, truculent, insolent, and defiant, his face a sneer, his voice a taunt, his whole air threat and swagger, as he shouted, "Lovejoy died like a fool." Then he compared the drunken mob that shot him down to the Revolutionary sires, who spurned overboard that hated tea taxed by British usurpation; thus glorifying a mob of assassins by likening their atrocities to the patriotic exploits of the men of '76, and thus dragging them down to the depths of infamy along with bandits and brigands.

Who was this railing brawler vilifying the Revolutionary dead by herding them with murderers? The AttorneyGeneral of Massachusetts, the highest legal officer of the Commonwealth. Was this a man whom the grand old Bay State delighted to honor? She had sunk thus low. Then it was when liberty, law, and justice put on sack-cloth, cast dust upon their heads, and sat down wailing forlorn together; for truth had fallen in the streets, equity could not enter, justice stood afar off, and judgment was turned away backward.

Profoundly revolving these horrors, Wendell Phillips had

come up to this great consult in the old Cradle of Liberty. Musing on the drear past, brooding over the heaving present, and forecasting the portentous future, he could give less heed than he would to the wise words of the venerated Channing. But when the brutal harangue of the Attorney-General smote his ear, his half reverie broke with a crash, as he heard Austin's scornful flout of Lovejoy, that he died like a fool," his impious eulogy of his murderers, his sacrilegious slander of the Revolutionary dead.

As soon as Austin's last brutal words dropped, Phillips sprang to the lectern. Then came that outburst of eloquence, in tempest, soul of fire, flashing its lightnings from a tongue of flame. "Sir, when I heard principles laid down that place the murderers of Alton side by side with Otis and Hancock, with Quincy and Adams, I thought those pictured lips would have broken into voice to rebuke that recreant American, the slanderer of the dead. Sir, for the sentiment he has uttered on soil consecrated by the prayers of Puritans and the blood of patriots the earth should have yawned and swallowed him up!" Then from the mob in the gallery burst howls of rage, and down plunged an avalanche of yells and curses. Babel clanged jargon, and Bedlam broke loose, drowning all speech. At last these mob yells came clanging through the din: "Take that back; take that back; make him take back that word 'recreant'; he shan't go on till he has taken that back!"

At length mob throats grew hoarse, and Phillips began: "I will not take back my words. Surely the AttorneyGeneral of Massachusetts needs not the aid of your hisses against one so young as I am."

He

When Phillips' volcanic outburst had blown the AttorneyGeneral out of sight he began to dissect his argument. showed that it was neither law nor logic, had neither premise nor conclusion, was a sheer inflammatory harangue to infuriate the mob he led. At the end of Phillips' speech where was that burly swell of brag, brass, and bluster? At the

outset sneering, insolent, defiant, he had burst upon the meeting with the swing and swagger of a bravado. In the rôle of a bully he had blurted insults at his own pastor, and with swinish hoofs had trampled the ashes of the Revolutionary dead. Now at the meeting's close what is left of his bloated grandiloquence? He had felt dashed against his brazen brow and burning into it the brand of infamy as that conquering young arm launched the bolt that smote him down. That bolt was symbolized in the stone sped to Goliath's forehead by the hand of a stripling three thousand years before, when the giant of Gath dashed to earth lay headless in the bloody dust. Thus was the Goliath of the Bay State bar struck down by another stripling, who, though he never had a brief, had a sling and stone, an unerring aim, and an arm that drove the missile home. The bolt flew true, and down headlong went the perjured official, perfidious to the highest trusts, false to liberty, and patron of mobs and murderers, and grand old Faneuil Hall rang out in a thousand echoes its loud-Amen!

THE OTHER FELLOW

By WILLIAM HAWLEY SMITH, Teacher, School Superintendent, Lecturer. Born in Sunderland, Mass., 1845; resides in Peoria, Ill.

From "The Evolution of Dodd," copyright, 1884, by William H. Smith and John W. Cook, and published by Rand, McNally & Co., Chicago, Ill.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes says that in every one of us there are two persons. First, there is yourself, and then

there is the Other Fellow! Now one of these is all the time doing things, and the other sits inside and tells what he thinks about the performance. Thus, I do so-and-so, act so-and-so, seem to the world so-and-so; but the Other Fellow sits in judgment on me all the time.

I may tell a lie, and do it so cleverly that the people may think that I have done or said a great or good thing; and they may shout my praises far and wide. But the Other Fellow sits inside, and says, "You lie! you lie! you're a