we are to escape further attack
upon our peace and security, we must boldly and resolutely grapple with
the monster of anarchy. It is not a thing that we can safely leave to be
dealt with by party or partizanship. Nothing can guarantee us against
its menace except the teaching and the practise of the best
citizenship, the exposure of the ends and aims of the gospel of
discontent and hatred of social order, and the brave enactment and
execution of repressive laws.

Our universities and colleges can not refuse to join in the battle
against the tendencies of anarchy. Their help in discovering and warning
against the relationship between the vicious councils and deeds of
blood, and their unsteadying influence upon the elements of unrest, can
not fail to be of inestimable value.

By the memory of our murdered president, let us resolve to cultivate and
preserve the qualities that made him great and useful; and let us
determine to meet the call of patriotic duty in every time of our
country's danger or need.

DECORATION DAY[5]

BY THOMAS W. HIGGINSON

Friends:--We meet to-day for a purpose that has the dignity and the
tenderness of funeral rites without their sadness. It is not a new
bereavement, but one which has softened, that brings us here. We meet
not around a newly opened grave, but among those which Nature has
already decorated with the memorials of her love. Above every tomb her
daily sunshine has smiled, her tears have wept; over the humblest she
has bidden some grasses nestle, some vines creep, and the
butterfly,--ancient emblem of immortality--waves his little wings above
every sod. To Nature's signs of tenderness we add our own. Not "ashes
to ashes, dust to dust," but blossoms to blossoms, laurels to the
laureled.

The great Civil War has passed by--its great armies were disbanded,
their tents struck, their camp-fires put out, their muster-rolls laid
away. But there is another army whose numbers no Presidential
proclamation could reduce, no general orders disband. This is their
camping-ground--these white stones are their tents--this list of names
we bear is their muster-roll--their camp-fires yet burn in our hearts.

I remember this "Sweet Auburn" when no sacred associations made it
sweeter, and when its trees looked down on no funerals but those of the
bird and the bee. Time has enriched its memories since those days. And
especially during our great war, as the Nation seemed to grow
impoverishe