tream of years.
George Washington, then Chief Magistrate, performed the ceremony, and
what he joined together time has not put asunder. It was not a wedding
in high life, such as shakes the foundation of fashionable society
today, but rather more like the swearing away of a verdant country
couple, in some Gretna Green, with no other capital than youth, health
and trusting confidence. We have had some domestic discords; once a
very serious family row, but I of the South, join you of the North, in
thanks to God, the application for divorce was not granted, and we are
still a united republic.

The memories which followed that civil strife were so bitter,
doubtless many of you northern brethren believed the men who
surrendered at Appomattox were not any too sincere, and if we should
ever have war with any foreign country, the north, east and west would
have to furnish the patriotism, for the South would never again march
under the stars and stripes. But when the Spanish-American war broke
out, the first boy to pour out his heart's blood for his country's
flag, was Ensign Bagley, of North Carolina. The young man who
penetrated the Island of Cuba, 'mid Spanish bayonets and bullets, and
searched out Cevera and his fleet in the harbor was Victor Blue, the
son of a Confederate soldier. The young man who sank the Merrimac,
Captain Richmond Pearson Hobson, was the son of another Confederate.
Our Consul in Cuba, whose patriotism no one ever doubted, was General
Fitzhugh Lee, and the old man who planted the flag in the tree-tops
around Santiago, and led two negro regiments into the battle, was
fighting Joe Wheeler of the Confederate army.

If I were to close here, what an optimistic picture would be left in
the glow of the century's searchlight. But alas! we have unsolved
problems of imperial moment, and my purpose is to throw the
searchlight upon a few of these unsolved problems.

First, being a southern man, I shall turn it upon the Race Problem.

A century ago the Indian question was a perplexing problem, but it
cuts but little figure now, for the Indian is nightly pitching his
moving tepee a day's march nearer the sunset shore, where one more
shove, and,

"Mad to life's history
Glad to death's mystery,"

the red race will go, to where the pale face will cease from
troubling, and the weary spirit will find its rest at last.

The Chinese question is of equal insignificance, since our doors are
closed and barred again