But I am detaining you too long. I gladly discharge the pleasant duty assigned me, and cordially welcome you to the Capital. That sturdy old Scotch statesman, Fletcher of Saltoun, writing to the Earl of Montrose, two hundred years ago, said: “I knew a very wise man that believed that, if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.” I welcome you, teachers of Kansas, as men and women who could say, with far more truth: “In educating the boys and girls of the State, we inspire its sentiment, control its business, direct its enterprise, and make its laws.” No one could aspire to a nobler, greater work than yours, and in assembling here you make manifest the fact that you realize the vast importance of your duties. I trust your meeting will be pleasant and instructive, and that you will one and all return to your homes inspired with renewed ardor for your work, and with larger, broader, more exalted views of its great dignity and greater responsibilities. To those here assembled, and to all the faithful, earnest teachers of Kansas, I address Shakespeare’s language: “I praise the Lord for you; and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you. You are good members of the Commonwealth.” ADDRESS. Delivered in the Grand Opera House, Topeka, Jan. 6, 1886, at installation of officers of Lincoln Post, G. A. R., and other organizations. COMRADES OF THE GRAND ARMY, LADIES OF THE RELIEF CORPS, AND MEMBERS OF THE SONS OF VETERANS: I was somewhat surprised, while reading the papers this morning, to see in the program of this evening’s ceremonies, that I was announced for an address. I entered a mental protest against this detail for extra duty. I do not know what I have done to deserve it. I was invited to act as “Master of Ceremonies” on this occasion. I did not understand, in accepting the invitation, that the Master of Ceremonies was expected to make a speech. I felt very much, when I read that announcement, as did a soldier at Chicamauga. The battle was just opening; the artillery was thundering at the distant fords; the crackle of the more deadly musketry was swelling to the roar of a close conflict; and a regiment of our troops was moving forward, in line, through the forest. Suddenly a rabbit started from his cover, and ran as only a frightened rabbit can run, away from the advancing lines. A soldier, expressing, I have no doubt, the general sentiment of his comrades, shouted out: “Run, you white-tailed little rascal, run; if I hadn’t any more pride than you have, I’d run, too.” When I saw the announcement referred to, I felt like running.