exercised with extreme caution and
self-restraint.

FOOTNOTE:

[49] From a speech delivered at Symphony Hall, Boston, August 25, 1902.

THE NEGRO

HENRY W. GRADY

The love we feel for that race you cannot 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 a vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty
pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I
see women with strained and anxious faces, 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, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her
slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door,
put a black man's loyalty between her and danger.

I catch another vision. The crisis 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. 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 his 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, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost
in the light of this better and brighter day. And out into this new
world--strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both--I follow!
And may God forget my people when they forget these.

NEW ENGLAND

JOSIAH QUINCY

The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on
every page of our history,--the language addressed by every past age of
New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect
security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, n