Come forward like men, not alone in Heath, but in Ireland everywhere! Protest against this atrocious attempt! Look in the face the enemies of your country; and if our liberties are to be cloven down, if Ireland is again enthralled, let us at least stand firm and erect, while the assassins strike the blow; and if we fall, let it be like men who deserve to be free!

They are slaves who fear to speak

For the fallen and the weak?

They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scorning, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

18. "DEAD ON THE FIELD OF HONOR."

Extract from address delivered by Ex-Governor J. L. CHAMBERLAIN, at dedication of a soldiers' monument, August 8th, 1869, at Plymouth, Massachusetts.

You all know the story of La Tour d'Auvergne, "The First Grenadier of France," for whose inspiring heroism the Emperor Napoleon ordered that his name be called at every daily parade of his corps. At the call, the sergeant of his original company stepped to the front, and with his salute replied, "Dead on the field of honor." These were indeed, and ever will be, thrilling words. It is an instinct of the human heart to honor those who have overcome the fear of death, and especially those who have given their lives for a belief, a sentiment, an idea, a principle. All nations have their treasured rolls of martyrs and heroes; and it has been held worthy of the highest ambition to write one's name upon the scroll. It has been deemed a high necessity by the State to cherish the memory of those who have died in its behalf. Art, eloquence, and song, philosophy and religion, have conspired to perpetuate the fame and embalm the characters, if not the names, of those who died for the weal of others. Even those who profess to believe that passing pleasure

is the end of life are constrained to yield to the force of heroic example; and the responsive heart of man responds that "it is sweet to die for country."

To be superior to cold, fatigue, and hunger; to rise above the care of self and the fear of death, to subdue the sense, is a kind of regeneration, the very transfiguration of human nature. Whatever the final cause or object may be, the over-mastering of self is great; for such manliness is noble, and such devotion is sublime. But if we yield our admiration to the mere spectacle of such heroism, what honor shall we pay to those who were heroes for the sake of right, the men who bear witness to their faith by dying for it; who go forth, in the full comprehension and communion of the truth, to stake their lives on its vindication! To die in a just cause, in attestation of faith in it, because of love for it, is indeed to die gloriously, - to die on the "field of honor."

And yet, this is not to die: it is rather to live with martyrs and heroes of the past, and in the memory, the gratitude, the benediction of the future. To be enrolled "dead in a just cause," is not this to be triumphant over death, and after death? For human history is not a dead sea; it is a flowing river. There is a course and progress of human affairs, a development of society, rational, spiritual, moral, and material; a slow but sure unfolding of the latent genius of the race; a destiny of man, a God of history.

So, standing here on Plymouth Rock, and looking out upon that sea which once bore hither a few brave spirits driven in scorn from the Old World's embrace, to unfold the New World's brighter destiny,- that same sea which to-day covers the delicate nerves that thrill the heartbeats between world and world, - I read the mighty lesson of the times. And what is whispered by the past, and what is thundered by the present, what I see in your

countenances and read on those sealed lips, I proclaim to the expectant future, for Truth shall conquer, and those that fell for her defence she will lift to her triumph.

Stand, then, O monument! Resist the shock of the elements and the touch of time, eloquent with these deathless names. And ye, O martyrs, tell to after ages what virtue was in this! Tell to a delivered country how precious are her foundations! Tell to enfranchised humanity, Liberty can never die!

19. BE JUST, AND FEAR NOT.. CARDINAL WOLSEY, after losing the royal favor, a. D. 1529. (KING HENRY VIII: Act III., Scene II.)

WOLSEY, by himself.

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

WOLSEY, to Cromwell, who has entered.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, - when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour –

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues: Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and Truth's: then if thou fallest; O Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the King;

And Pr'ythee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 't is the King's: my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

SHAKESPEARE.

20. A BURLESQUE CHALLENGE TO

AMERICA.

This article, from the "London Punch," fitly suggests the absurdity of war between England and America.

LET us quarrel, American kinsmen. Let us plunge into war. We have been friends too long. We have too highly promoted each other's wealth and prosperity. We are too plethoric; we want depletion. To which end, let us cut each other's throats. Let us sink, burn, kill, and destroy, with mutual energy; sink each other's shipping,