sneak, and you know it!" I tell him to shut up, to hear what the people say about me; but he only continues to repeat over and over again, "You lie! you lie! you're a

sneak, and you know it!"

Or, again, I may do a really noble deed, but perhaps be misunderstood by the public, who may persecute me and say all manner of evil against me, falsely; but the Other Fellow will sit inside and say, "Never mind, old boy! It's all right! stand by!

And I would rather hear the "well done" of the Other Fellow than the shouts of praise of the whole world; while I would a thousand times rather that the people should shout and hiss themselves hoarse with rage and envy, than that the Other Fellow should sit inside and say, "You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!'

TO YOUNG MEN OF NEW YORK IN 1861

By EDWARD DICKINSON BAKER, Lawyer, Member of Congress from Illinois, 1844–51; Senator from Oregon, 1860-61; Major-General of Volunteers. Born in London, England, 1811; killed in the Battle of Ball's Bluff, 1861.

From an address at a great mass-meeting in New York City, April 19, 1861. Reprinted, by permission of the publisher, from "Masterpieces of E. D. Baker," published, 1899, by Oscar T. Shuck, San Francisco.

The hour for conciliation is passed; the gathering for battle is at hand, and the country requires that every man shall do his duty. Fellow citizens, what is that country? Is it the soil on which we tread? Is it the gathering of familiar faces ? Is it our luxury, and pomp, and pride? Nay, more than these, is it power, and might, and majesty alone? No; our country is more, far more, than all these. The country which demands our love, our courage, our devotion, our heart's blood, is more than all these. Our country is the history of our fathers, the tradition of our mothers. Our country is past renown; present pride and power; future hope and dignity; greatness, glory, truth,

Constitutional guarantees above all, freedom forever. These are the watchwords under which we fight, and we will shout them out until the stars appear in the sky in the stormiest hour of battle. I have said that the hour of conciliation is passed. It may return, but not to-morrow or next week. It will return when that tattered flag [of Fort Sumter] is avenged. It will return when rebellious Confederates are taught that the North, though peaceable, is not cowardly; though forbearing, not fearful. That hour of conciliation will come back when again the ensign of the Republic will stream over every rebellious fort of every Confederate State, to be, as of old, the emblem of the pride, and power, and dignity, and majesty, and peace of the nation.

man.

Young men of New York! you are told that this is not to be a war of aggression. In one sense, that is true; in another, not. We have committed aggression upon no We have committed no oppression, broken no compact, exercised no unholy power, but have been loyal, moderate, Constitutional, and just. We are a majority, and will govern our own Union, within our own Constitution, in our own way. We are all Democrats. We are all Republicans. We acknowledge the sovereignty within the rule of the Constitution; and under that Constitution, and beneath that flag, let traitors beware!

In this sense, then, young men of New York, we are not for a war of aggression; but in another sense, speaking for myself as a man who has been a soldier, and as a man who is a Senator, I say I am for a war of aggression. I propose that we do now as we did in Mexico-conquer peace. I propose that we go to Washington, and beyond. I do not design to remain silent, supine, inactive-nay, fearful-until they gather their battalions and advance upon our borders or into our midst. I would meet them upon the threshold, and there, in the very hold of their power, in the very atmosphere of their treason, I would dictate the terms of peace. It may take thirty millions of dollars, it may take three hundred

millions-what then? We have it. Loyally, nobly, grandly do the merchants of New York respond to the appeals of the Government. It may cost us seven thousand men; it may cost us seventy-five thousand; it may cost us seven hundred and fifty thousand-what then? We have them. The blood of every loyal man is dear to me. My sons, my kinsmen, the men who have grown up beneath my eye and beneath my care, they are all dear to me; but if the country's destiny, glory, tradition, greatness, freedom, Constitutional government demand it, let them all go.

I am not now to speak timorous words of peace, but to kindle the spirit of determined war; I speak in the Empire State, amid scenes of past suffering and past glory. The defenses of the Hudson above me, the battle-field of Long Island before me, and the statue of Washington in my very face; the battered and unconquered flag of Sumter is waving at my side, which I can imagine to be trembling again with the excitement of battle. And as I speak, I say my mission here to-day is to kindle the heart of New York for warshort, sudden, bold, determined, forward war.

Civil

Let no man underrate the dangers of this conflict. war, for the best of reasons upon the one side, and the worst upon the other, is always dangerous to liberty, always fearful, always bloody. But, fellow citizens, there are yet worse things than fear, than doubt and dread, and peril and bloodshed. Dishonor is worse. Anarchy is worse. States forever commingling and forever severing is worse. Secessionists are worse. To have star after star blotted out, to have stripe after stripe obscured, to have glory after glory dimmed, to have our women weep and our men blush for shame through generations to come; that and these are infinitely worse than blood. . .

And [young men of New York] if, from the far Pacific, a voice feebler than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day. And if a man whose hair is gray, who

is well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may pledge himself on such an occasion, and in such an audience, let me say as my last word that as amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the hosts of New York when they charged in contest on a foreign soil for the honor of the flag; so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored, not to fight for honor on a foreign field, but for country, for home, for law, for government, for Constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity and in the hope that the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner waves, there glory may pursue and freedom be established.

AT THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON

By ROBERT GREEN INGERSOLL, Lawyer, Lecturer, Orator. Born in Dresden, N. Y., 1833; died in New York City, 1899.

From an address on "The Liberty of Man, Woman, and Child," Reprinted, by permission of the publisher, from "Prose Poems and Selections from the Writings of Robert G. Ingersoll," copyright, 1895, by C. P. Farrell, New York City.

A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity—and gazed upon the sarcophagus of black Egyptian marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon-I saw him putting

down the mob in the streets of Paris-I saw him at the head of the army of Italy—I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand-I saw him in Egypt in the shadow of the Pyramids-I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. saw him at Marengo—at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves.

I

I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster-driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast-banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.

I thought of the orphans and widows he had made-of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door,. and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky-with my children upon my knees and their arms about me. I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder.

FOR EXPANSION

By JOSEPH C. SIBLEY, Member of Congress from Pennsylvania, 1893-95 and 1899-. Born in Friendship, N. Y., 1850.

From a speech made in the House of Representatives, February 1, 1900. See Congressional Record for February 1, 1900.

Shall we keep the Philippine Archipelago and Puerto Rico? Every foot! No nation on the globe has higher rights or better title to a rod of soil. We hold by a double claim the right of conquest and the right of purchase. My belief is that where once our banner's shadow has fallen, there will survive a race of freemen. And I should hold Cuba until stability, order, the protection of life, property, and good government were assured.