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' A W. It was a long lionr before bis watching was re- For the heated irons had canght on fire the warded. The American came out first, halted cloths around them, and had been slowly burn- at the curbstone and hailed a carriage, and in , ing all the way. Suddenly, she arose as though about ten minutes the lady appeared. 1 stung by a sharp, quick pain. In doing so, the “She's the one to follow,” whispered the spy, wind caught up her garments, and at the same and he crossed the street and kept her in sight j time a lurid flame shot its fiery tongue up from until she entered her own door. It was an easy the centre of the sleigh, and before I could get matter then to find out from shop-keepers who nearer, my darling’s form was wrapped in its occupied the house, their business, and the awful embrace. In an instant she sprang upon j name of the lady. He found out that neither the seat, extended her arms toward me, and gave father nor sons * labored, that they had been a wild, piercing scream, which sickens my heart ' heard coming home long after midnight, that to think of even now, for it was her death-knell! they had a plain house and never received vis itors, and in brief, learned so much that he went away wondering if the headsman would not soon have new victims from that very house. Queen Imogene had the money at hand to pass over to Walter. It was money which had been given her by prominent political oppo nents of the Emperor, who, while they would not openly countenance conspiracy, would se cretly encourage it with their gold and hope it success. “Ton must cut loose from all friends and cling to us and our object,” she said, as she passed over the money. “You will know this place again. Meet me here to-morrow at this hour, for to-morrow night, if luck attends, I mean you shall strike for the freedom of France.” The daring woman had a weak-minded ac quaintance who was a household servant at the Tuilleries, and she had planned in her own mind that this servant should introduce Walter into the palace as her brother and secrete him The already terrified horses gave one mad plunge and flew out on the open country road with the ' speed of the wind itself. With all the strength \ of my body and desperate determination of my j frenzied brain, I rushed after her. “ Seize the reins, Kitty ! -stop the horses !’’ I j shouted, with all the force of my panting breath, never ceasing in my mad race, and growing wild with the fury and despair of a maniac as the consciousness of her flying further and further from me forced itself upon me. Still, I never paused. I remember praying God, as I ran, to give me the lightning’s speed that I might strike dead those fiery horses, which looked like mocking devils to my strained eyes. I remem ber rushing on and on until my heart thumped like an iron weight in my bosom - until my veins seemed bursting and my tongue hung down like a wounded deer's in the chase; then I could run no longer. I fell on my side on the cold, pitiless snow, but strained my staring eyes still, with the same wild longing not to lose until such time as he could assassinate the Em- j sight of that awful, burning, flying thing. In ' peror. j the dim distance, I could only see a livid sheet j The idea seemed cowardly to him at first, but j of flame—noticing that in one part of the sleigh | he trembled under the appealing look of the | the flames rose higher, and seeming to entwine beautiful brown eyes, and the soft hand laid on : themselves, like fiery serpents, around some ob- his made him as wax in her hands, ject there. (I thought of the Laoccoon.) Higher “Perhaps I shall not have you do it,” she said j and higher they rose ! Was it imagination, or at parting. “Perhaps I myself will strike the ; did I see, standing upon the back seat, a little blow as well as make the appeal. It would be ’ form in that red glow, with white arms out- glorious to have France freed by a girl.” j stretched to me in a mute, loving farewell? In She held down her crimson cheek for him to j the wind which came howling over me like a kiss—a cheek which no man had ever kissed be- I demon as I lay prostrate there, I could almost fore, and her brown eyes smiled and looked love j hear the childish wail, “ Good-by, Will-boy !— and admiration for him. She was an enthusiast, j good-by !” Then she was gone ! A great dark- if not insane, and her mad thoughts construed i ness fell over me, and I knew no more, murder into glory. She believed that the peo- | Hays and months rolled by before my con- pie of France were panting under a burden of I seiousness returned. Thank God! I was obliv- tvranny and praying for some one to relieve ; ious to the first shock of anguish which swept them, and that tens of thousands would rally at over my father’s and mother s souls when the her call. Had God given her a less beautiful j whole terrible reality burst upon them ! They face, and a voice which did not remind the lis- ; found me that dreadful night, lying on the snow, teners of silver bells, she could have made no with a country lad (who had seen the awful spec- converts and led no band. j tacle of the burning sleigh) bending over me. Walter almost forgot his identity as he beheld From him they gleaned all. My father had her beauty and listened to her voice, and to win found the Christmas box before Letty’s door, her was a greater prize than the gratitude of a ! where our darling had thrown it in her first nation. He would do or dare anything if she pang of terror that awful night. He picked it planned. (TO BE CONTINUED.) (For The Sunny South.] , Kitty Ford's Sleigh-Ride. up reverently, and after several days, carried it out to Letty himself—it was her gift from our angel Kitty. He entered the house, saw a woman prostrate on her face on a miserable bed, and in the centre of the room something stark and cold and white dressed for the grave, and turned j away; for poor Letty had gone where hunger is not felt—where cold never chills and “the weary I are at rest.” She had gone to meet our Kitty, “Mama, may I carry poor Letty Head her aud they "' er e angels alike now in that “land of iristmas box to-night?” j pure delight.” I am an old man now, and in my stubborn, rebellious heart I have often wondered why God took our darling from us in that cruel manner; why she was stricken down like an accursed thing, in the very act of doing good; why burning, BY CARTEL. Christmas box to-night “Not to-night, love; the snow is deep and the wind very cold. Perhaps you had better wait until a more pleasant time.” “Wait, mama? With these fine oranges and good things, and nice, warm shawl for poor Letty, tJUUU bUlUgDy U1AU. lAiUC, W ill LL1 .->Lin TV i 1UI j»UUl Art'Ll V , ©> J © 7 J ^ J 1 and she has had no Christmas yet! And she is ; that most horrible of deaths, should have been sick, too—perhaps cold and hungrv !” ! her lot, and why she should have died as crim- And as she plead for poor Letty with child- ! inals once died on burning scaffolds. But His like eloquence, Kitty Ford’s sweet* faee flushed ! wa ? s are P ast finding out, and I can kiss the rod with its eager look of anticipated joy in the per- j and sav from the depths of my old heart now, formanceof a good deed. The childish rebuke “Father, Thy will, not mine be done.” “He went home to the mother’s heart. j doeth all things well,” you know. Our child- “Yes, Kitty, you shall go to-night, and Willie J aD gel was taken away in the innocence and pu- •J&Vyotir’imps,*anchbe sure^ou are warm,'"or cares, and 1 perchance'sins mig£t Have ciomfed it is a bitter, bitter night,” spoke my mother, that purity of heart or stained that unblemished while Kitty went dancing out, every jetty curl name; and a sweet, soothing thought comes like on her pretty head dancing in company, her balm on bleeding wounds to tell me that, like cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling—not so Elija of old, she was taken up in a chariot of much at the thought of a sleigh-ride over the j g lor y straightway to heaven. In my reveries, I crisp, gleaming snow, as at the anticipated de- j f 0e l a s °ft> dimpled hand smoothing my boyish light of being whirled so quiokly away on her j curls, and hear, as a soft, sweet strain of music sweet errand of merer. j wafted attwilight overmemory’s sea, “Will-boy, Our Kitty, our sunbeam, as we all called my j are y° u coming? I am waiting for you,” and a beautiful little sister, was rarelv ever denied | little child leadeth me beside “ green pastures ” anything. She had a way of gliding into your j and “still waters.” heart and taking possession of it before you knew it. Everybody loved her—everybody had a kind word, a bright smile, or a tender, caress ing touch for Kitty. She.was my only sister, and the sunshine of our lives; and though I was four years her senior, she called me her “ Will- boy,” and had such a pretty, motherly way of smoothing my hair, straightening my cravat and brushing the dust off’ my jackets, that you could not help smiling to see it. I don’t think I ever knew so young and gay a heart to be so keenly alive to the sufferings and pangs of poverty as hers was; and ever since the day when, with her bright face all aglow, she led in out of the freez ing cold and sleet a little shivering, half-starved ABOUT WOMEN. Jennie Bennett, of San Francisco, dresses in male attire and catches frogs for a living. A woman purchasing some cups and saucers was aiked what color she would have. “Why, I ain’t particular,” said she; “ any color that won’t show dirt.” When a stranger asked a Detroit girl whom he met at a party if she was married, she promptly replied: “Not quite, but I’ve sued three or four chaps for breach of promise.” There is a girl in Charlestown who has four child about her own age, our sunbeam was an : legs . And jet we dare say she expects tired . ® e _, S mercy to the poor; anc. Letty Bead ; m en t. Q give her their seats in street-cars when found that the kindness shown her that day was slie k going home !lfter a dime shopping expe- not the last from her child-friend. j d j t j on 68 L t a 1 In a moment, Kitty was back again, a white * , _ . , _ .. _ hood drawn close around the rosy beauty of a i The Women s Centennial Executive Committee sweet, eager face, with a stray rebel ringlet in ! have ralsed f3u > 000 for *be erection of a pavil- defiunce of the hood, peeping out here and there 1011 m whlch to exhlblt every kind of women’s on the low, white brow, the red lips curved in I work - To thls collection, women of all nations smiles, the dimpled cheeks burning crimson j are ex P e<ded contribute. with excitement, the shy, brown eyes lit up with | Mbs. Moulton has served a paper on Plv- the radiance of love and joy, and the delicate, j mouth Church regarding her expulsion without child-like form encircled with a bright, scarlet j any proper trial. She demands a council of the ftfghan. What a picture of life and warmth and church to judge between her and Plymouth beauty she was, standing there by the glowing | Church. Henry C. Bowen says he does not pro fire in all the radiance of childhood’s grace and ! pose to be driven from Plymouth Church, innocence! A picture deep graven on her i Mrs. Davt, of Tennessee, pretended she had brother s heart, and one which he will not soon [ been drowned, just to see what her husband loiget. j would do. He hired a cheap negro to drag for Good-by, mama. Love me a heap till you j the body, and went to the corn-field at his usual j see me a g am - I am going to make poor Letty j pace. And then she crawled out from under | so happy. she whispered, as she held tightly in \ the house, followed on, and blessed him her j her little arms the Christmas box, which was to | hardest. make poor Letty so happy. I T he Latest Yft The ladies will be inter I My mother tucked her in the sleigh, snug and , , E ,. TE ' T .~r e lad ies wiil be inter- j QT - j ° I ° v. ested m knowing that the latest item in lashion- warm, ana ran back for hot irons to place at her ' , , .. . ° darling’s feet, so bitter was the night, and the ! ab ? matters is a silver-plated nickel chatelaine, wind blew sharp and cold right in our faces wltb attached, to be worn at the belt, de- The irons, wrapped in cloths, were adjusted in * lgn fc ed tl , C0DTenie f ‘ <= a .rrmge of the prayer- their places around the tiny feet. One more ! r TblS J 1S * 0rm ° f * “Good-by, mama: good-night, papa. I’ll come 1 £ nCy C ?°? S ; and “ holl ° w ’ BaT ® *? th , R° tt0m ° f back bv and bv,” and father placed the reins tbe «P rl gbt a nd the extreme ends of the cross- ; in my hand, the whip cracked, the bells jingled. pl6CeS ’ ThlS keeps the P ra y«-book in place, and Kitty was off'on her sleigh-ride. A wav sped ! Mrs. Mart Livermore, in her recent lecture the dashing grays! While mv little sister's ! 011 “Superfluous Women,” after stating that there j pearly teeth chattered with cold, she laughed 1 are 63,084 more women Chan men in Massachu- j merrily withal, and Her sweet voice, in answer setts, admits that there is only a limited field for ; to mine, rang out on the wintrv air as clear as a ibe d i s pl a y of their talents at home, and there- ! silver bell, when I protested tliat I would give u P ( ? n sbe proposes to establish a “bureau of ; my little redbird a glorious flight over the snow, j emigration” which shall “ put in communication j Away ! away ! and more rebellious ringlets es- tbe "'omen of the East and the vacancies of the i cape from their prison and flutter, on the wings j ^ est.’ M hether Mrs. Livermore meant by “va- j of the wind, back from the fair young face. ! canc 'es °f the W est ’ the men of the West, is j Away ! out of the crowded thoroughfare to the not clear. suburbs of the city we flew, and stopped the The Association for the Advancement of the j panting grays at last before the poor cottage Medical Education of Women, held its October where Letty Bead earned a miserable subsistence meeting on the 11th instant at the residence of for herself and invalid mother. j Dr. Jacobi, 110 West Thirty-fourth street, New j The house was dark; so thinking^ the inmates York. Among the medical and other people i might be asleep, and not wishing Kitty to leave her snug nest and warm irons until the door was opened, I sprang out to arouse them, but paused present were Mrs. Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, Dr. Herber, Dr. Anna Leukens, Dr. Mary E. Bald win, Dr. E. Darwin Hudson, Dr. Fuller-Walker, a moment at the gate to stamp my feet en the ; Mrs. D. G. Croly and others. The reports show ground, and thus relieve them of their frozen ! that the Woman's Medical College has a class of feeling. forty students, twelve of whom will study four “ ill-boy, are you coming ? I am waiting for years; that the new hospital on Stuyvesant you,” Kitty called out to me; but just as I closed Square is nearly done, and has forty beds; that the gate behind me, a low murmur of pain es- the Chair of Pathological Anatomy has been Reaped her lips. j founded, and that the annual subscriptions now ‘ Oh ! my foot!—how it burns !” j amount to fifteen hundred dollars. THE BURNS CLUB. (.DEDICATEb TO THE PRESIDEST.) BY SAMUEL LAWRENCE. I’ certain town that has the pride To think itsel’ the leadin’ city, Princcpt a’ ither towns beside I’ a’ the Southern territ’ry, A cantie squad o* genial souls. Foreseein’ far the cornin’ “hub,** Agreed, upo’ a count o’ polls, Amang themsel’ to maJF a “Club,” An* ca' it Burns. An’ for its Presiden’ they chose A worthy burley son o’ Galen, Whose heart was touch'd wi’ ithers’ woes, An’ han’ devoted to the ailin’. Nae doubt they thought it thus was best, To start the “ Club ” i' prosp'rous way, To have a seer whose skill coufest Was gi'en to scalds an’ burns a’ day, To rule the Burns. Nae “Hornbook” he wha ance did fight “Auld Hornie’* wi’ “uncommon weapons, 1 An' meanly coost into bis sight “Urinus spirit us o’ capons"' Fair field was a', an' naething mair He ask’d “auld Hangie” for to gie; An’ I wad stak' my nickel there, Auld “ Nick ” wad own his right to be Chief o’ the Burns. But if, on higher aim intent. They wiss'd’a scholar an' a poet Their true design to represent, Nae ither choice could better show it; For na to him has written maist Should we accord the poet’s meed,— The giftie ’twas o’ polished taste An’ feelin' heart this seer had made Chief o' the Burns. If min’ an’ literary taste. An' social gift an’ heart o* feelin*, By kindly fiight o’ years increast, New worth day-in-an'-out revealin’; If close minist'ring to the ills O’ human life wi’ constant care Can gi’e a claim on ithers’ wills. The “Club ” this aue did weel declare First ’rnaug the Burns. An' there, amang the rank an’ file, A genial, laughin’ son o’ Erin Appear’d, wi' the engagin’ smile His sonie face was always wearin*. I am na sure, but half incline To think ’twas he wha first propos'd I* club thae spirits to combine. An’ hae their gifties each compos’d A’ i' the Burns. I wadna doubt, before he quit His Emerald hame, the taste o’ blarney Was on his lips, sae ready sit His words upo 1 his tongue. I warn ye, For this ye maun-ua him condemn— By him the gift was na abus’d; On Bench, at Bar, his fellow-men Had own’d it for their profit us’d, And now the Burns. Aiblins, within his veins there ran A drap o’ Scot’s bluid o’ the bluest: The mixture mak’s a better man Thau either by itsel, an’ truest. It tak’s the cool o‘ ane an* gies To sober down the ither’s heat; Transfuses that, an 1 clears the lees O* unco righteous—an’ a’ meet Here i’ the Burns. There, battle-scarr’d an’ maim'd, there sate A patriot o’ that school, now olden, Fair flourish'd i 1 his native State 1* days vvhase memories are golden. He fought for principle, nor drew Ever his sword i' cause o' Wrang. Wae’s-me! the Wrang prevail'd, an’ threw Him wi’ the rest the wreck’d amang; Greet him the Burns. Wi’ relish for the arts o' peace, An’ cultur’d taste, it was his pleasure The joys o’ ithers to increase,— Aye contributin’ without measure. What tho’ his frame be scarr’d an' maim’d, Left are his uoble heart an’ brain; Spilt bluid an' lost lim’, unreciaim’d, remain - An’ frae that gallant State beside Was there an honor’d son—a poet, Writer, orator. Wae betide Them can admire, an’ yet na show it Mair truly than i’ vain applause. But gifts like his, vouclisaf d to few, By few are priz’d; an' tinsel draws Where gowd neglected lies. Anew Be prais’d the Barns. Alake, my brither! I ha'e seen Too aft the claims o' modest merit Ignor’d, an’ honor on the mean Conferred, wha knew na how to wear it. But Burns has writ, wi* great guid sense, The honest heart’s the only seat O’ peace an’ rest; an* recompense For a’ we miss i’ that w*e meet. Lang li7e the Burns! Anitherpoet! tow'riug, tall, An’ wi’ a frame-wark amaist bainie, He i* the law courts led them all. And speel’d Parnassus weel as ainie. Grave i’ his looks, wi’ beetlin’ brow s Nana wad suspect the heap o’ fun Lurk'd i’ his brisket down below, Unless they met him here upon Some night o’ Burns. He little car’d for warldly fame, An’ ance refus’d to wear the ermine,— Atween enjoyment an’ the name He tak uae moment to determine; But ance to see him lowp an’ skip Adown the ste^py mountain's side, An’ rein up at the hotel step. Wad mak' you hail him as the pride O’ a' the Burns. 1 I’ counsel safe, keen i’ debate, He was sae careless i’ his skelpin, Wad drive a blin' horse, if beiate, Straight into ase-heap ayont helpin’, An’ wonder if the frien' he spill’d, Atween the wheels himsel had crawl’d, Or some kelpin’, wi’ frolic till'd, I’ her weird art had baith enthrall’d. This o* the Burns. Here sate auither, i' his place, I’ min' an' heart the peer o’ onie; Alake, he wore a care-worn face, Tho’ still a welcome, jovial cronie. Scars, his patriotism to attest, He bore, yet scarcely needed such Amang his freres, aboon the rest, To wear the mitre or the crutch. This o’ the Burns. Ane time his fellow-men, wha knew His worth ayont his own conception, Resolv'd to put him mang the crew Wha mak' the laws for our reception. But envy an’ cauld frienship. an' Traitors mair false, the object saw, An’ stood atween. The noble man Glennarva changed to Chappaqua, An' join'd the Burns. Lo, there—a clever, canuie Scot Amang the Burns was cozie sittin’: But, mov'd by genial thought, I wot, Anon frae ane to ither flittiu. A Donald, but na bainie he,— He added to the general zest; Wi' min', an' purse too, alway free— Aye welcomin the new-come guest Here i’ the Burns. An’ monie mair could there be seen, Braw chiels an' sprittie; nae contention ’Mang a' save wha could best his kin To a assert i' kind attention. True worth wi* gowd thegither weigh’d,— The first, wi’ them, aye kick'd the beam; An’ honor to the best was paid As did a tribute due beseem To a' the Burns. But hist! ’Tis na the pibrooch’s soun’ Frae distance o'er the senses steaiin’ I’ salt au' gentle notes aroun' The captur'd “Club," frae floor to ceilin’. Na, na,—wi' music sweeter far, The Clio o' the “Club.’’ i* verse An’ voice attun’d, witboutten jar, Historic deeds did there rehearse A' for the Burns. An' a’, wi* ravish'd ear attent, An' heart entranc’d, her grace an’ beauty Eyed, till wi' her sweet ravishment She held a' hearts subdued to duty. Then rose, as if wi* ane accord. A loud, uproarious, wild applause, The Presiden’ could get nae word, Sae dash u his gavel frae his paws An' clos'd the Burns. AMBITION AND ELOQUENCE. Extracted from an Address to the Sophomore Class of Emory College. ture's richest contribution to oratory, not grow- • ing up labflriously into it. but dropped in. as it were, from a higher sphere—Patrick Henry, the shining patriot, has passed into history as the orator. So true is it that ora tort outlives and BT COL ‘ J ' M ‘ PACE - OF Covington. subordinates almost every other distinction. ' I am glad, then, to hear that von are ambitions. ?u atr \?^ sn j * s ''irinous. but oratory is illustrious. My attention has been arrested within the last few The literature of even age and every country has years bv the discovery of some discerning per- ce ' e orated its usefulness and its glory, and all sons of what they declare to be a decay of the me . n P a J b* d tribute of their highest admi- spirit of ambition among our voung men. I 16 fron— talking men. writing men. silent men. have heard this thing from men of different call- aordld men , ignorant men. all men. No won- ings. from ministers, from professional men, from l ’ er ' tbeu ' young gentlemen, that ambitious business men—ave, even from some thoughtful 7 oun g men like you incline to possess it. But women—and all nave concurred in lamenting it ^°. u ^ust not take any special conceit ot your- - -■ - - selves ior that. The lore of power and distinc tion. with more or less of force, and with large variety of purpose, resides in every human strong, which possesses no considerabfe body of . bea , rt ’, an ^.^* w J oun 8 minds, into which a lib- I ambitious vouth, shall surely fall into weak- ] f ra education has poured its generons mspira- ness and decay. Its industrial interests shall ; J lon ’ b aTe pot east a wistful eye at those shining | sicken and languish—its commerce shall be pros- honors which you are said to covet so eagerly. trated—its laws shall lose their vigor—its arms ^ ou ma - tal f^ v tftk< ' 1 vrlt b worthy account, as | shall lose their force, its people shall lose their f u an 8 ar -’ ot possible good, that the desire has j liberties. Its glorv shall utterly fade. For upon ,een born in you, but the samg desire glows in the voung men of to-dav shall be devolved to- “<*“/“ henrt not of . v ? ur number, and has ex- ! morrow the care and conduct of public aflairs. : oited the vain expectation ol many an incapable, j That high purpose, early conceived and ardently j tben ’ J°n are inclined to plume yourself, and j cherished, to be something and do something, to - onr teow , s disdainfully on the other dare and do, to push on and out the bounds of slde ’ let ™ e **7 - vou that - vonr fault would be | human discovery and human attainment in : g pe p te J fb an the 1 harisee s, for it would not have i every department of human effort, not only en- ' nis justification. j nobles the life of the individual, but exalts the i .. Supposing your desire to enter and occupy as boding no good to the commonwealth. And, upon their premises, their conclusion is a just one. That State, however honored, great and State and guarantees its progress. The men who raised our State to its fair fame, and have kep>t it there through peace and war; the field of oratory to have ripened into a pur pose, what then? It is worth your while to consider carefully before you fnllv confirm such who, with skill and courage, haTe illustrated its P ur P 0f,e ’ whether, in the allotment ot 1 rovi- j arms on fields of blood; who, in the arenas of ' dence > J oar trtl e path lies in that direction. legislation and debate, have worthily done their ^°ar j a jf nts ma .J be great, and yet intended by ] appointed tasks; who, in the administration of I tba t Dn me hand which bestowed them, to lead her laws, have delivered just and upright, judg- - ou e l s e"’b ere - p lie inner gates of gold and ment; all who have worthily achieve,? distil- ! pearl which open into the fur domain of Ela tion and pushed forward the column of ciriliza tion, were men whose young ears were quick to hear the inspiring call to effort, whose young bosoms thrilled under its ringing notes, and whose young minds expanded to receive and nourish a great resolution. Woe, then, to that people whose young men are dead to ambition ! For my own part, I am inclined not to share that opinion of which I have spoken. I mention quence, do not fly wide to every intellectual hand which knocks for admission. He only en ters there who bears that talismnnic key which nature, with stinting hand, gives only to her fa vorites. That old aphorism, that the poet is born and the orator made, is framed to mislead. It conveys only half a truth. It would have us believe that the poet gets his high commission from God, and the orator from the schools, as if world LUUl UpmiUU Ul WUlUUlURVHMIJUUeil. X 1110X111011 ! , . .. it simply to bring it to your attention, and to ° ne ^. ere Jf ss dmB<d - v accredited to the w publicly* invite you and all voung men to dis- ^ tha ? the other ; a3 lf of tid «t could be prove it. In the absence of auv convincing made an orator; as if enthusiasm were meaner proof, I am unable to see bow it can be true. I ! ia n fancy; as if the honey of persuasion were can perceive no cause for it. Can it be possible : the P‘ od «ct °f the schools, and not ot the mys- that in a free State, where honor, and mriurnce, n , c . bee. The great Athenian might have de- and usefulness almost surely await those who j claimed by the sea-shore, and disciplined lnm- seek and deserve them, young men, weU- , m a cave^ for a lifetime: his great rival at descended sons of a line of ambitious sires, 1 Rome ml S bt ^ mastered all the models and blessed with opportunity and charged with obli- compassed all the learning ot his time and gation. should not feel the keen ,md generous I both have failed of their high mark if each had spur of ambition? And that, too, when the ; not held a commission as divine as that ot Horner call to effort, everywhere divinely sent and never and ' lr S lL That practice and discipline, long silent, comes up in gathered volume from a de- and severe are indispensable conditions to sue- spoiled and impoverished land and a liberty I cessfui omtorL d would be absurd to deny, but assailed ? Oh, it cannot be ! But if wholly or partially true, then be it your distinction, young gentlemen, to remove the reproach, and revive and perpetuate the glories of a former day. The ambition to which I refer, and which I commend, does not mean the desire of achieve ment only. It does not stop with that, it goes beyond. It couples with that desire a great and commensurate endeavor—it weds the will to the wish. That man cannot be truly called ambi tious who does nc more than wish. He deserves no such honorable appellation. He is a dreamer and a fool, and for such there are no crowns. No man ever yet led or conquered unless through adverse ranks he hewed his toilsome way with sword of thought or steel. that these can make an orator in the full mean ing of the word, it would be absurd to affirm. And hence I say, young gentlemen, that if you purpose to be orators, and look to hope's full fruition, it would be well for you to examine your talents and ascertain for what they fit you. For everywhere, and at all times, talent has its special fitness, enjoining speech and work upon this man, and silence and work upon that one. There are other fields than oratory where talent may reap rich and glowing rewards, and where it may serve itself and mankind as conspicu ously and beneficently. We will suppose you, however, to be looking to oratory, to have made examination of your faculties, to have consid ered their adaptation, to have found yourself in And perhaps I ought to say, lest I might be i possession of that high commission of which I misunderstood by you and condemned^** uno- j k a ve spoken. I Jo you for one mom at imagine s'en^ef alone,‘o? generous'’as"ira™n after su^e R m’l 1 nJc e or a j J o y ^ n o^'n t |h1t < !h| T ?^1? so,” I 'fell excellence and usefulness, and not as importing ! 3*? 1 } ?°- must be countersigned by the hand that selfish and unhallowed passion by which the I °, f labor - Tb is rich gift is the material only tor angels fell, which has so often cursed the world, tLat w , ea P on w b lcl > -' ou are yourselves to fashion and which, in Shakspeare’s immortal verse, Wol- | lnto the sword of victory, and which another sey charged Cromwell to fling away. I am per- ma - v not fashion lor you. And if you are not suaded that the education which vou are tore- ! P re P ared to do hard work, patient, persistent ceive here, and your own good sense, will clearlv j wop k,^extending over the necessary years,^1 care point out to you the distinction between these **"’ ”* 1 " * “ " 1 ’*" two uses of the word ambition, and that you will come to understand and act on them. I have learned further, young gentlemen, that the current of your imputed ambition sets most strongly toward oratory, and that many of your class, and perhaps all of you who stand before not what may be the measure of your ability, you will have entered upon a fruitless course. No, not fruitless, but fruitful, bitterly fruitful of disappointment. By what method you are to arrive at the arts of oratory, by what detail of step you are to ap proach and seize its citadel, and hang out from me now, may be reckoned upon as future con- i wads J our conquering banners, it is not tor tributions to the speaking force of the country, j me t0 mdlca te. That is an omce which belongs in its various fields of exercise. This informa- * to y° ur instructors, and tor which their correct tion has served to suggest that I offer vou some tastes eminently qualify th-ru. But I would observations, which must of necessity be partial ; ^ aln take this auspicious occasion to impress only, upon the aet of oratory, its importance i upon you a sense of the value to the orator of and attractiveness. I shall not detain you long, 1 knowledge, of a fully replenished mind. For for brevity is very good, when we are or are nSt ! 0RAT0Bi ' 13 not a trick, a matter wholly of pas- understood. Brethren, said the good Methodist | sloria t e appeal. Yon may acquire all the graces exhorter of the olden time, be not only brief of st y le ’ - Ton ma - v ba "e command of language, but short. ! you may have an exuberant fancy and profound We should search in vain for a more con vine- : P a3S ‘on, and yet fall short of yqnr mark. You ing proof of the estimation in which oratory is : mnst store - v0,,r mm,i wlth the rlcheH knovl- held by us than that which this college supplies I ed S e lf - von are alnim 8 at real eminence. You img cannot do without the resource which only learn ing can supply. Tacitus, after reciting the pains and labor l and they were immense) which Cicero took t* perfect himself as an orator, declares that it is not with oratory as with the other arts which are confined to certain objects and circum scribed within their own peculiar limits. He alone deserves the name of an orator who can speak in a copious style with ease or dignity, as the subject requires, who can find language to every year on each commencement occasion. The young orator, as such, not the proficient student, or the ready and able essayist, comes first upon this stage. Yonr first public exercise is in oratory, your first distinction at college is awarded to your powers of declamation, and at the close of your college career they invest the honors of your scholarship with splendor and applause. To the development of those powers your education is shaped and directed. It anx- , - , , , , iously seeks to discover and nourish them, it re- ! Di:c0EAT]c HIS argument, who, through the pas- joices to find them, it counts them as pearls of ! slons > can command the understanding, and great price, it reckons them as precious jewels ,vh,le he serTes mankind, knows how to delight to be preserved and polished and set in honor, the judgment and the imagination of his audi- It is no less true to-dav than in the times of ! ence - He mnst 8tore his mlnd w,th J ust ldeas Tacitus, that the eminent orator is the model of 8 ood * nd evil, with tke rules of right and which every aspiring parent recommends to his i wron g- " lth th « t a >r aRd human trans- children. Has not the world known and felt the ! act ioHs. These on every controverted point are power of eloquence since that historic hour the orator s province. In courts of law, just and when Demosthenes, its peerless master, wielded unjust undergo his discussion; m political debate at will that fierce democracy, shook the arsenal, between what is expedient and honorable, it is and thundered over Greece to Macedon and An- ! ^ ls *° ^ raw ^ ine ; s . uc “ important topics, taxerxes’ throne? Did it not behold and ac- who can hope to bring variety of matter, and to knowledge it when Cicero, with a master's hand, dl 8 n ifv that matter with style and sentiment if broke in upon the splendid isolation of the lau- be has not beforehand enlarged his mind with rel-crowned Greek, divided his throne, shared the knowledge of human nature with the laws his honors, and led in republican Borne a band moral obligation, the deformity of vice, the of orators as robust as her arms? Did not the beauty ot virtue/ empire witness its beauty and force, its trans- 1 Toung gentlemen, to the acquisition of such cendent excellence, when Chrysostom, the | knowledge, anc ] t (, e attainment ot such excei- golden-monthed, gave to the cause of religion 1 l enc e> your opportunities are ample. I he treas- his consummate powers of persuasion, and left ared thought of the ages is open to your perusal, a fame as a Christian orator as unique as the fame t lU daily journal eloquently tells you of the of the Pagan Demosthenes? Did not France, e . veuts ? f . J our own tlIue ’ arjd °f f b fc 8 rfeat 1 a e s - that nation of orators, behold the intensity of tions which are pressing for solution, louare an orator’s power, when Mirabeau, the mouth- Rndei ' a skillful and God-fearing training, which piece of the revolution, ugly as the nephew of 1 knows how to direct your talents and educe Satan, filled the constituent assembly with the i J 0Rr P ower *- . . , , flood of his eloquence, and swayed that turbu- . do F° u ’ *be ancient masters speak and teach lent body to his passionate will ? Oh, an ora tor's work and an orator’s fame are splendid and substantial things ! They make mean and little the distinctions which rank and wealth bestow, the dignities which kings confer. In the most splendid fortune, in all the dig nity and pride of power, is there anything which can equal the heartfelt satisfaction of the able Sunlight in the House.—The direct rays of orator when he sees the most illustrious citizens, 1 the sun should have free admission into living- men respected for their years and flourishing in | apartments; because the sun’s rays impart a the opinion of the public, yet paying their court healthy and invigorating quality to the air, and to him, and in the midst oi wealth and grandeur j stimulate the vitality of human beings, as they fairly owning that they still want something su- j do those of plants, and without sunlight human in fullness of native tongue; the moderns, ; scarcely less great and gifted, fire your hearts and inform your minds. Stretch forth your eager hands and seize the waiting prize, and then, with reverent hearts and “ echoing feet, thread the sweetest walks of fame.” perior to all their possessions ? That grand old character, the Earl of Chatham, upright and virtuous, comes down to the admi ration of posterity, not in the list of England’s noblemen, but in the nobler and more illustri ous list of England's orators. Patrick Henry, beings, as well as plants, would sicken and die. The aspect, therefore, should be southeast. A lazy fellow falling a distance of fifty feet, and escaping with only a few scratches, a by- _ , stander remarked that he was “too slow our own Patrick Henry, son of the South, na- fast enough to hurt himself.’ instinct print