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in life, and that this duty of scholars to educate the mass is still more imperative in a republic, since a republic trusts the State wholly to the intelligence and moral sense of the people. experience of the last forty years shows every man that law has no atom of strength, either in Boston or New Orleans, unless, and only so far as, public opinion endorses it; and that your life, goods, and good name rest on the moral sense, self-respect, and law-abiding mood of the men that walk the streets, and hardly a whit on the provisions of the statute book. Come, any one of you, outside of the ranks of popular men, and you will not fail to find it so. Easy men dream that we live under a government of law. Absurd mistake! We live under a government of men and newspapers. Your first attempt to stem dominant and keenly cherished opinions will reveal this to you.

But what is education? Of course it is not book-learning. Book-learning does not make five per cent of that mass of common sense that "runs "the world, transacts its business, secures its progress, trebles its power over nature, works out in the long run a rough, average justice, wears away the world's restraints, and lifts off its burdens. The ideal Yankee, who "has more brains in his hand than others have in their skulls," is not a scholar; and two thirds of the inventions that enable France to double the world's sunshine, and make Old and New England the workshops of the world, did not come from colleges or from minds trained in the schools of science, but struggled up, forcing their way against giant obstacles, from the irrepressible instinct of untrained natural power. Her workshops, not her colleges, made England, for a while, the mistress of the world; and the hardest job her workman had was to make Oxford willing he should work his wonders.

I urge on college-bred men, that, as a class, they fail in republican duty when they allow others to lead in the agitation of the great social questions which stir and educate the age. Agitation is an old word with a new meaning. Sir Robert Peel, the first Eng

lish leader who felt himself its tool, defined it to be "marshalling the conscience of a nation to mould its laws." Its means are reason and argument, no appeal to arms. Wait patiently for the growth of public opinion. That secured, then every step taken is taken forever. An abuse once removed never reappears in history. The freer a nation becomes, the more utterly democratic in its form, the more need of this outside agitation. Parties and sects laden with the burden of securing their own success cannot afford to risk new ideas. "Predominant opinions," said Disraeli, "are the opinions of a class that is vanishing." The agitator must stand outside of organizations, with no bread to earn, no candidate to elect, no party to save, no object but truth, to tear a question open, and riddle it with light.

Let us inaugurate a new departure, recognize that we are afloat on the current of Niagara, — eternal vigilance the condition of our safety, that we are irrevocably pledged to the world not to go back to bolts and bars, — could not if we would, and would not if we could. Never again be ours the fastidious scholarship that shrinks from rude contact with the masses. Very pleasant it is to sit high up in the world's theatre and criticise the ungraceful struggles of the gladiators, shrug one's shoulders at the actor's harsh cries, and let every one know that but for "this villainous saltpetre you would yourself have been a soldier." But Bacon says, "In the theatre of man's life, God and his angels only should be lookerson." Sin is not taken out of man as Eve was out of Adam, by putting him to sleep. "Very beautiful," says Richter, “is the eagle when he floats with outstretched wings aloft in the clear blue; but sublime when he plunges down through the tempest to his eyrie on the cliff, where his unfledged young ones dwell and are starving." If the Alps, piled in cold and silence, be the emblem of despotism, we joyfully take the ever-restless ocean for ours, only pure because never still. . .

To be as good as our fathers, we must be better. They silenced

their fears and subdued their prejudices, inaugurating free speech and equality with no precedent on the file. Europe shouted, "Madmen!" and gave us forty years for the shipwreck. With serene faith they persevered. Let us rise to their level. Crush appetite and prohibit temptation if it rots great cities. Intrench labor in sufficient bulwarks against that wealth, which, without the tenfold strength of modern incorporation, wrecked the Grecian and Roman States; and, with a sterner effort still, summon women into civil life as re-enforcement to our laboring ranks in the effort to make our civilization a success.

THE PROBLEM OF THE NEW SOUTH.

H. W. GRADY.

This extract is taken from Mr. Grady's speech before the Merchants' Association of Boston, December, 1889. (By permission of Cassell Pub. Co., N.Y.)

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My people, your brothers in the South-brothers in blood, in destiny, in all that is best in our past and future -are so beset with this problem that their very existence depends upon the right solution. Nor are they wholly to blame for its presence. slave-ships of the Republic sailed from your ports-the slaves worked in our fields. You will not defend the traffic, nor I the institution. But I do hereby declare that in its wise and humane administration in lifting the slave to heights of which he had not dreamed in savage home, and giving him a happiness he had not found in freedom, our fathers left their sons an excellent heritage. In the stress of war, this institution was lost. I thank God as heartily as you do that human slavery is gone forever from American soil. But the freedman remains with him, a problem without precedent or parallel. Note the appalling conditions. utterly dissimilar races on the same soil, with equal political rights, almost equal in numbers, but terribly unequal in intellect and responsibility; each pledged against fusion-one for a century in

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servitude to the other, and freed at last by a destructive war; the experiment sought by neither, but approached by both with doubt - these are the conditions. Under these, adverse at every point, we are requested to carry these two races in peace and honor to the end.

Never, sir, has such a task been given to mortal stewardship. Never before in this Republic has the white race divided on the rights of an alien race. The red man was cut down as a weed, because he hindered the way of the American citizen. The yellow man was shut out of this Republic because he was an alien and inferior. The red man was owner of the land, the yellow man highly civilized and assimilable; but they hindered both sections, and they are gone. But the black man, affecting but one section, is clothed with every privilege of government, and pinned to the soil, and my people commanded to make good at any hazard, and at any cost, his full and equal heirship of American privilege and prosperity.

It matters not that every other race has been routed, or excluded, without rhyme or reason. It matters not that wherever the whites and blacks have touched in any era or in any clime, there has been irreconcilable violence. It matters not that no two races, however similar, have lived anywhere at any time on the same soil with equal right in peace! In spite of these things, we are commanded to make this change of American policy, which has not, perhaps, changed American prejudice. We do not shrink from this trial. . . . The love we feel for that race, you can't measure nor comprehend. As I attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there looks down to bless; and through the tumult of this night steals the sweet music of her croonings, as thirty years ago she held me in her black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I speak, and I catch the vision of an old Southern home with its lofty pillars and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden sunshine. I see a woman with

strained and anxious face, and children alert, yet helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions; and in a big homely room, I feel on my tired head the touch of loving hands now worn and wrinkled, but fairer to me yet than hands of mortal woman, and stronger yet to lead than hand of man as they lay a mother's blessing there while at her knees the truest altar I yet have found. I thank God she is safe in her sanctuary; because her slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin, or guard at her chamber door, put a black man's loyalty between her and danger. I catch another vision the cries of battle, a soldier struck, staggering, fallen. I see a slave scuffling through the smoke, winding his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling death; bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the stricken lips; so wrestling meantime with agony that he would lay down his life in his master's stead. I see him by the weary bedside ministering with uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who in life fought against freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped, and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away; and with downcast eyes and uncertain step, start out into new and strange fields, faltering, sighing, but moving on until his shambling figure is lost in the light of this brighter and better day. And from the grave comes a voice, saying, "Follow him! Put your arms about him in his need, even as he put his arm about me. Be his friend as he was mine!" And out into the new world, dazzled, bewildered - both I follow. people when they forget these!

strange to me as to him, And may God forget my