thousand dollars) from the bank. Mr. Palmer's signature was
necessary, but he had been called away to attend to some duty in a
lumberyard at a distance of a mile or more.

Thither the depositor hastened and made known his wants and the necessity
of having them attended to at once. Mr. Palmer could find neither pen,
pencil, ink, nor paper. But without a moment's hesitation he picked up a
shingle, borrowed a piece of red chalk, and with it wrote a check on the
shingle in large and distinct letters for twenty-eight thousand dollars.

This was good when presented for all the money the depositor had in bank,
and it proved an exceedingly good advertisement for Palmer. It gained
confidence for the original genius of our first great banker, whom
everybody trusted.

Robert Emmet's Speech of Vindication.

Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, was born in Dublin in 1778,
and was executed for treason in Dublin, September 20, 1803.
A prize-winner at Trinity College, Dublin, and an eloquent
speaker before the Historical Society, he lent his young
energies to the cause of Ireland with a devotion that was as
pure and unselfish as it was rash. Traveling on the
Continent, he received from Napoleon I a promise to help
Ireland. He then returned secretly to Ireland and made plans
for a revolution. An abortive uprising occurred. Emmet, with
a mob of followers, attempted to seize Dublin Castle, but
one volley dispersed his rabble.

He fled to the Wicklow mountains, intending to escape from
the country, but he made a last visit to his sweetheart,
Miss Curran, and was captured. His speeches before the
tribunal which sentenced him to be hanged are models of
noble and eloquent dignity. Thomas Moore, Emmet's
schoolfellow and friend, inscribed to his memory a touching
poem:

Oh, breathe not his name--let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

In another lyric, which begins with the line "She is far
from the land where her young hero sleeps," Moore alluded to
the sad after-lif