who thus sin are in the downward path to ruin, and all those who so act, including about the whole human race, are on the sure road to hell." The unctuous brother, bewildered, cried out: "Bless the Lord, this nigger takes to the woods!"

When Charles Francis Adams delivered his eulogy upon Seward, by invitation, at Albany, New York, I wrote a reply which was widely spread in the journals, to which I refer those who care to know my estimate of Lincoln. I need not say that I place him first of all his contemporaries in natural ability and devoted patriotism.

C. M. CLAY.

STRA

XVI.

ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.

TRANGE mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and grotesque, of cap and crown, of Socrates and Rabelais, of Æsop and Marcus Aurelius, of all that is gentle and just, humorous and honest, merciful, wise, laughable, lovable and divine, and all consecrated to the use of man; while through all, and over all, an overwhelming sense of obligation, of chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon all the shadow of the tragic end.

Nearly all the great historic characters are impossible monsters, disproportioned by flattery, or by calumny deformed. We know nothing of their peculiarities, or nothing but their peculiarities. About the roots of these oaks there clings none of the earth of humanity. Washington is now only a steel engraving. About the real man who lived and loved and hated and schemed we know but little. The glass through which we look at him is of such high magnifying power that the features are exceedingly indistinct. Hundreds of people are now engaged in smoothing out the lines of Lincoln's face

-forcing all features to the common mold-so that he may be known, not as he really was, but, according to their poor standard, as he should have been. Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone-no ancestors, no fellows, and no successors. He had the advantage of living in a new country, of social' equality, of personal freedom, of seeing in the horizon of his future the perpetual star of hope. He preserved his individuality and his self-respect. He knew and mingled with men of every kind; and, after all, men are the best books. He became acquainted with the ambitions and hopes of the heart, the means used to accomplish ends, the springs of action and the seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature, with actual things, with common facts. He loved and appreciated the poem of the year, the drama of the seasons.

In a new country, a man must possess at least three virtues-honesty, courage and generosity. In culti vated society, cultivation is often more important than soil. A well executed counterfeit passes more readily than a blurred genuine. It is necessary only to observe the unwritten laws of society-to be honest enough to keep out of prison, and generous enough to subscribe in public—where the subscription can be defended as an investment. In a new country, character is essential; in the old, reputation is sufficient. In the new, they find what a man really is;