ns says: 'O wretched man that I
am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' You alone,
gentlemen, can deliver this wretched man _from the body of this
dead woman!"_

What in word-painting can exceed the following from an address
by Robert G. Ingersoll?

"A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon--a
magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, almost fit for a dead deity--
and gazed upon the sarcophagus of black Egyptian marble where rest
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 in Italy; I saw him
crossing the bridge at 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; I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm, and at 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 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
Fortune 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 rays 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
about my knee and their arms about me; I would rather have been
that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust,
than have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder."

In his eloquent eulogy upon Abraham Lincoln, my neighbor and friend,
Hon. Isaac N. Phillips, said: