the world.
Through forty years educating men, healing the sick, caring for
children, then preaching to a great church, then lecturing in the
great cities nearly every night, then writing biographies; and also an
accessible counselor to such masses of young people!"

The address referred to in the foregoing letter was taken down in
shorthand, and was substantially as follows:

"Comrades: I feel at this moment as Alexander Stephens said he felt at
the close of the war of 1865, and it can well be illustrated by the
boasting athlete who declared he could throw out twenty men from a
neighboring saloon in five minutes. He requested his friend to stand
outside and count as he went in and threw them out. Soon a battered
man was thrown out the door far into the street. The friend began his
count and shouted, 'One!' But the man in the street staggered to his
feet and angrily screamed, 'Stop counting! It's me!' When this feast
opened I was proudly expecting to make a speech, but the great men who
have preceded me have done all and more than I intended to do. The
hour is spent--they are sounding 'taps' at the door. I could not hope
to hold your attention. It only remains for me to do my duty in behalf
of Meade Post, and do it in the briefest possible space.

"Comrades of Boston and New York, you have heard the greetings
when you entered the city--you have seen the gorgeous and artistic
decorations on halls and dwellings--you have heard the shouts of the
million and more who pressed into the streets, waved handkerchiefs
from the stands, and looked over each other's heads from all the
windows and roofs throughout that weary march. Here you see the lovely
decorations, the most costly feast, and listen to the heart-thrilling,
soul-subduing orchestra. All of these have already spoken to you an
unmistakable message of welcome. Knowing this city as I do, I can say
to you that not one cornet or viol, not one hymn or shout, not one
wave in all the clouds which fair hands rolled up, not one gun of all
that shook the city, not one flush of red on a dear face of beauty,
not one blessing from the aged on his cane, not one tear on the
eyelids which glowed again as your march brought back the gleam of a
morning long since dead, not one clasp of the hand, not one 'God bless
you!' from saint or priest in all this fair city, but I believe has
been deeply, earnestly, sincere.

"This repast is not the result of pride--is not arranged for gluttony