to have something in her pocket. [Laughter and applause.] And I have a very modest tribute to the illustrious person whom we are met to-day to honor. With your leave I will read it. [Applause.] Thou metamorphic god! Who mak'st the straight Olympus thy abode, Hermes to subtle laughter moving, Apollo with serener loving, Thou demi-god also! Who dost all the powers of healing know; Thou hero who dost wield The golden sword and shield,-- Shield of a comprehensive mind, And sword to wound the foes of human kind; Thou man of noble mould! Whose metal grows not cold Beneath the hammer of the hurrying years; A fiery breath doth blow Across its fervid glow, And still its resonance delights our ears; Loved of thy brilliant mates, Relinquished to the fates, Whose spirit music used to chime with thine, Transfigured in our sight, Not quenched in death's dark night, They hold thee in companionship divine. O autocratic muse! Soul-rainbow of all hues, Packed full of service are thy bygone years; Thy winged steed doth fly Across the starry sky, Bearing the lowly burthens of thy tears. I try this little leap, Wishing that from the deep, I might some pearl of song adventurous bring. Despairing, here I stop, And my poor offering drop,-- Why stammer I when thou art here to sing? CLARK HOWELL OUR REUNITED COUNTRY [Speech of Clark Howell at the Peace Jubilee Banquet in Chicago, October 19, 1898, in response to the toast, "Our Reunited Country: North and South."] MR. TOASTMASTER, AND MY FELLOW COUNTRYMEN:--In the mountains of my State, in a county remote from the quickening touch of commerce, and railroads and telegraphs--so far removed that the sincerity of its rugged people flows unpolluted from the spring of nature--two vine-covered mounds, nestling in the solemn silence of a country churchyard, suggest the text of my response to the sentiment to which I am to speak to-night. A serious text, Mr. Toastmaster, for an occasion like this, and yet out of it there is life and peace and hope and prosperity, for in the solemn sacrifice of the voiceless grave can the chiefest lesson of the Republic be learned, and the destiny of its real mission be unfolded. So bear with me while I lead you to the rust-stained slab, which for a third of a century--since Chickamauga--has been kissed by the sun as it peeped over the Blue Ridge, melting the tears with which the mourning night had bedewed the inscription:-- "Here lies a Confederate soldier. He died for his country."