this plainness of speech," he said: "I have a hundred friends, as brave souls as God ever made, whose hearths are not as safe after honored men make such speeches." He knew that his ruthless words closed to him homes of friendship and hearts of sympathy. He saw the amazement, he heard the condemnation; but, like the great apostle preaching Christ, he knew only Humanity, and Humanity crucified. Tongue of the dumb, eyes of the blind, feet of the lame, his voice alone, among the voices that were every where heard and heeded, was sent by God to challenge every word or look or deed that seemed to him possibly to palliate oppression or to comfort the oppressor. Divinely commissioned, he was not, indeed, to do injustice; but the human heart is very patient with the hero who, in his strenuous and sublime conflict, if sometimes he does not clearly see and sometimes harshly judges, yet, in all his unsparing assault, deals never a blow of malice nor of envy nor of personal gratification-the warrior who grasps at no prizes for which others strive, and whose unselfish peace no laurels of Miltiades disturb.

But his judgment, always profoundly sincere, was it not sometimes profoundly mistaken? No nobler friend of freedom and of man than Wendell Phillips ever breathed upon this continent, and no man's service to freedom surpasses his. But before the war he demanded peaceful disunion yet it was the Union in arms that saved Liberty. During the war he would have superseded Lincoln-but it was Lincoln who freed the slaves. He pleaded for Ireland, tortured by centuries of misrule and while every generous heart followed with sympathy the pathos and the power of his appeal, the just mind recoiled from the sharp arraignment of the truest friends in England that Ireland ever had. I know it all; but I know also, and history will remember, that the slave Union which he denounced is dissolved; that it was the heart and conscience of the nation, exalted by his moral appeal of agitation, as well as by the enthusiasm of patriotic war, which held up the hands of Lincoln, and upon which Lincoln leaned in emancipating the slaves; and that only by indignant and aggressive appeals like his has the heart of England ever opened to Irish wrong.

I am not here to declare that the judgment of Wendell Phillips was always sound, nor his estimate of men always just, nor his policy always approved by the event. He would have scorned such praise. I am not here to eulogize the mortal, but the immortal. He, too, was a great American patriot; and no American life-no, not one-offers to future generations of his countrymen a more priceless example of inflexible fidelity to conscience and to public duty; and no American more truly than he purged the national name of its shame, and made the American flag the flag of hope for mankind.

Among her noblest children his native city will cherish him, and

gratefully recall the unbending Puritan soul that dwelt in a form so gracious and urbane. The plain house in which he lived-severely plain, because the welfare of the suffering and the slave were preferred to book and picture and every fair device of art; the house to which the North Star led the trembling fugitive, and which the unfortunate and the friendless knew; the radiant figure passing swiftly through these streets, plain as the house from which it came, regal with a royalty beyond that of kings; the ceaseless charity untold; the strong, sustaining heart of private friendship; the sacred domestic affection that must not here be named; the eloquence which, like the song of Orpheus, will fade from living memory into a doubtful tale; that great scene of his youth in Faneuil Hall; the surrender of ambition; the mighty agitation and the mighty triumph with which his name is forever blended; the consecration of a life hidden with God in sympathy with man-these, all these, will live among your immortal traditions, heroic even in your heroic story. But not yours alone. As years go by, and only the large outlines of lofty American characters and careers remain, the wide republic will confess the benediction of a life like this, and gladly own that if with perfect faith, and hope assured, America would still stand and "bid the distant generations hail," the inspiration of her national life must be the sublime moral courage, the all-embracing humanity, the spotless integrity, the absolutely unselfish devotion of great powers to great public ends, which were the glory of Wendell Phillips.

I

EBB AND FLOW.

WALKED beside the evening sea,

And dreamed a dream that could not be;
The waves that plunged along the shore
Said only-"Dreamer, dream no more!"

But still the legions charged the beach;
Loud rang their battle-cry, like speech;
But changed was the imperial strain:
It murmured-"Dreamer, dream again!

I homeward turned from out the gloom,-
That sound I heard not in my room;
But suddenly a sound, that stirred
Within my very breast, I heard.

It was my heart, that like a sea

Within my breast beat ceaselessly:

But like the waves along the shore,
It said

"Dream on!" and "Dream no more!"

I

Charles Godfrey Leland.

BORN in Philadelphia, Penn., 1824.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

[The Music Lesson of Confucius, and Other Poems. 1872.]

HAVE two friends-two glorious friends-two better could not be,
And every night when midnight tolls they meet to laugh with me.

The first was shot by Carlist thieves-ten years ago in Spain.
The second drowned near Alicante-while I alive remain.

I love to see their dim white forms come floating through the night,
And grieve to see them fade away in early morning light.

The first with gnomes in the Under Land is leading a lordly life,
The second has married a mer-maiden, a beautiful water-wife.

And since I have friends in the Earth and Sea-with a few, I trust, on high, 'Tis a matter of small account to me-the way that I may die.

For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing on the triple tree,

Or die in my bed, as a Christian should, is all the same to me.

THE

AT EASE WITH THE ROMANYS.

[The Gypsies. 1882.]

HE American gypsies do not beg, like their English brothers, and particularly their English sisters. This fact speaks volumes for their greater prosperity and for the influence which association with a proud race has on the poorest people. Our friends at Oaklands always welcomed us as guests. On another occasion when we went there, I said to my niece, "If we find strangers who do not know us, do not speak at first in Romany. Let us astonish them." We came to a tent, before which sat a very dark, old-fashioned gypsy woman. I paused before her, and said in English:

"Can you tell a fortune for a young lady?"

"She don't want her fortune told," replied the old woman suspiciously and cautiously, or it may be with a view of drawing us on; "No, I can't tell fortunes."

At this the young lady was so astonished that, without thinking of what she was saying, or in what language, she cried :

"Dordi! Can't tute pen dukkerin?" (Look! Can't you tell fortunes ?) This unaffected outburst had a greater effect than the most deeply studied theatrical situation could have brought about. The old dame stared at me and at the lady as if bewildered, and cried:

"In the name of God, what kind of gypsies are you?"

"Oh! mendui shom bori chovihani!" cried L., laughing; "we are a great witch and a wizard, and if you can't tell me my fortune, I'll tell yours. Hold out your hand, and cross mine with a dollar, and I'll tell you as big a lie as you ever penned a galderli Gorgio (a green Gentile)."

"Well," exclaimed the gypsy, "I'll believe that you can tell fortunes or do anything! Dordi! dordi! but this is wonderful. Yet you're not the first Romany rāni (lady) I ever met. There's one in Delaware: a boridiri (very great) lady she is, and true Romany,-flick o the jib te rinkeni adosta (quick of tongue and fair of face). Well, I am glad to see you."

"Who is that talking there?" cried a man's voice from within the tent. He had heard Romany, and he spoke it, and came out expecting to see familiar faces. His own was a study, as his glance encountered mine. As soon as he understood that I came as a friend, he gave way to infinite joy, mingled with sincerest grief that he had not at hand the means of displaying hospitality to such distinguished Romanys as we evidently were. He bewailed the absence of strong drink. Would we have some tea made? Would I accompany him to the next tavern, and have some beer? All at once a happy thought struck him. He went into the tent and brought out a piece of tobacco, which I was compelled to accept. Refusal would have been unkind, for it was given from the very heart. George Borrow tells us that, in Spain, a poor gypsy once brought him a pomegranate as a first acquaintanceship token. A gypsy is a gypsy wherever you find him.

These were very nice people. The old dame took a great liking to L., and showed it in pleasant manners. The couple were both English, and liked to talk with me of the old country and the many mutual friends whom we had left behind. On another visit, L. brought a scarlet silk handkerchief, which she had bound round her head and tied under her chin in a very gypsy manner. It excited, as I anticipated, great admi

ration from the old dame.

"Ah kenna tute dikks rinkeni-now you look nice. That's the way a Romany lady ought to wear it! Don't she look just as Alfi used to look?" she cried to her husband. "Just such eyes and hair!"

Here L. took off the diklo, or handkerchief, and passed it round the gypsy woman's head, and tied it under her chin, saying:

"I am sure it becomes you much more than it does me. look nice:

Now you

We rose to depart; the old dame offered back to L. her handkerchief, and, on being told to keep it, was greatly pleased. I saw that the way in which it was given had won her heart.

"Did you hear what the old woman said while she was telling your fortune?" asked L., after we had left the tent.

"Now I think of it, I remember that she or you had hold of my hand, while I was talking with the old man, and he was making merry with my whiskey. I was turned away, and around so that I never noticed what you two were saying."

"She penned your dukkerin, and it was wonderful. She said that she must tell it."

And here L. told me what the old dye had insisted on reading in my hand. It was simply very remarkable, and embraced an apparent knowledge of the past, which would make any credulous person believe in her happy predictions of the future.

"Ah, well," I said, "I suppose the dukk told it to her. She may be an eye-reader. A hint dropped here and there, unconsciously, the expression of the face, and a life's practice will make anybody a witch. And if there ever was a witch's eye, she has it."

"I would like to have her picture," said L., “in that lullo diklo (red handkerchief). She looked like all the sorceresses of Thessaly and Egypt in one, and, as Bulwer says of the Witch of Vesuvius, was all the more terrible for having been beautiful."

Some time after this we went with Britannia Lee, a-gypsying, not figuratively, but literally, over the river into New Jersey. And our first greeting, as we touched the ground, was of good omen, and from a great man, for it was Walt Whitman. It is not often that even a poet meets with three sincerer admirers than the venerable bard encountered on this occasion; so, of course, we stopped and talked, and L. had the pleasure of being the first to communicate to Bon Gaultier certain pleasant things which had recently been printed of him by a distinguished English author, which is always an agreeable task. Blessed upon the mountains, or at the Camden ferry-boat, or anywhere, are the feet of anybody who bringeth glad tidings.

"Well, are you going to see gypsies?"

"We are.

We three gypsies be. By the abattoir. Au revoir."

And on we went to the place where I had first found gypsies in America. All was at first so still that it seemed as if no one could be camped in the spot.