and friends around them, in the moment of social freedom and unconcern, by the assassin who long had been waiting for his chance to strike.

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Let me quote from history, "On Tuesday, the 10th of July, 1584, at about half-past twelve, the Prince, with his wife on his arm, and followed by the ladies and gentlemen of his family, was going to the dining-room. William the Silent was dressed upon that day, according to his usual custom, in very plain fashion. He wore wide-leaved, loosely-shaped hat of dark felt, with a silken cord round the crown,- such as was worn by the Beggars in the early days of the revolt. A high ruff encircled his neck, from which also depended one of the Beggar's medals, while a loose surcoat of grey frieze cloth, over a tawny leather doublet, with wide, slashed underclothes, completed his costume. Gérard (the murderer) presented himself at the doorway and demanded a passport. The Princess, struck with the pale and agitated countenance of the man, anxiously questioned her husband concerning the stranger. The Prince carelessly observed that it was merely a person who came for a passport; ordering, at the same time, a secretary to prepare one. The Princess, still not relieved, observed in an under-tone that she had never seen so villanous a countenance. Orange, however, not at all impressed with the appearance of Gérard, conducted himself at table with his usual cheerfulness, conversing much with the burgomaster of Leewarden, the only guest present at the family dinner, concerning the political and religious aspects of Friesland. At two o'clock the company rose from the table. The Prince led the

way, intending to pass to his private apartments above. The dining-room which was on the ground-floor, opened into a little square vestibule, which communicated, through an arched passage-way, with the main entrance into the court-yard. This vestibule was also directly at the foot of the wooden staircase leading to the next floor, and was scarcely six feet in width. Upon its left side, as one approached the stairway, was an obscure arch, sunk deep in the wall, and completely in the shadow of the door. Behind this arch a portal opened to the narrow lane at the side of the house. The stairs themselves were completely lighted by a large window, half-way up the flight. The Prince came from the dining-room, and began leisurely to ascend. He had only reached the second stair, when a man emerged from the sunken arch, and, standing within a foot or two of him discharged a pistol full at his heart. Three balls entered his body, one of which, passing quite through him, struck with violence against the wall beyond. The Prince exclaimed in French, as he felt the wound, “O my God, have mercy upon my soul! O my God, have mercy upon this poor people!"

Such was the death, and such the last exclamation of the great and good father of modern liberty, the son and sire of illustrious princes, the wise subverter of despotisms, the champion of popular rights, to whom, more than to any other man perhaps, the world is indebted for free institutions and free ideas. Who can doubt, if strength had been left our good President when the fatal bullet struck him, that he also would have exclaimed, "O my God, have mercy upon my soul! O my God, have mercy upon this poor people?"

So alike, in the circumstances of their departure, how doubly consoling now to trace the previous parallel between their lives.

Listen. "His constancy in bearing the whole weight of a struggle as unequal as men have ever undertaken, was the theme of admiration even to his enemies. The rock in the ocean, 'tranquil amid raging billows,' was the favorite emblem by which his friends expressed their sense of his firmness." Can you not, as you hear these words, almost see the calm figure of Abraham Lincoln in his cabinet, quietly meditating his wise plans of deliverance, while the nation was quaking with fear, and some were wildly urging him to take the archives and flee? That rock, "tranquil amid the raging billows," has sunk to re-appear in another Sea where, as we would fain hope, only the billows of peace shall kiss it forever more. Hear, again, of the immortal Prince, whom our chief magistrate so closely resembled. "The supremacy of his political genius was entirely beyond question. He was the first statesman of the age. The quickness of his perception was only equalled by the caution which enabled him to mature the results of his observations. His knowledge of human nature was profound. He governed the passions and sentiments of a great nation as if they had been but the keys and chords of one vast instrument; and his hand rarely failed to evoke harmony even out of the wildest storms." Strange that this man should have lived three hundred years ago! It seems to us that we saw him but yesterday, laying his patient hand upon a sea of warring interests and opinions, and soothing them to peace and loyal co-operation;

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moving so evenly that neither extreme was pleased at first, though both were satisfied at last; now seeming to go beyond, and now to come short of our eager wish. Yet true to his great duty, as the North-star to its eternal vigil, high and calm and clear, always in his place, shining with still and equal beam until our morning began to dawn, then wrapping his mantle of light about him, and joining the mighty host of the invisible.

He alone can

"God alone knows the heart of man. unweave the tangled skein of human motives, and detect the hidden springs of human action; but, as far as can be judged by a careful observation of undisputed facts, and by a diligent collation of public and private documents, it would seem that no man, not even Washington, has ever been inspired by a purer patriotism." That was said of Orange, after all the history of his public and private life had been carefully summed up. But there is much in Abraham Lincoln-the sweetest and tenderest traits in his character-of which we have seen but glimpses yet. Still we feel no hesitation to-day in placing him, so far as patriotism and honesty of motive can go, on the same pedestal with Washington. And then, beyond what we now accord him, how his name will brighten as it rises out of present conflicts into the serene sky of history, as all his little, halfforgotten acts of love come welling up into the memories of us all; as prejudice and passion cease clouding our vision, and we see him " travelling in the greatness of his strength," one of the choice company of imperial souls, garmented and crowned with the gratitude of the ages, along the starry pathways of the immortal!

At table, the plea

"His temperament was cheerful. sures of which, in moderation, were his only relaxation, he was always animated and merry, and this jocoseness was partly natural, partly intentional. In the darkest hours of his country's trial, he affected a serenity which he was far from feeling, so that his apparent gayety, at momentous epochs, was even censured by dullards, who could not comprehend its philosophy. He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows on his shoulders with a smiling face. Their name was the last word upon his lips, save the simple affirmative with which the soldier who had been battling for the right all his lifetime, commended his soul, in dying, 'to his great captain, Christ.' The people were grateful and affectionate, for they trusted the character of their Father William,' and not all the clouds which calumny could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the radiance of that lofty mind, to which they were accustomed, in their darkest calamities, to look for light. As long as he lived, he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, and when he died the little children cried in the streets." How apt the characterization ! The Hollanders never said "Father William" more affectionately than we shall say "Father Abraham" henceforth. He did "bear the load of a people's sorrows on his shoulders with a smiling face." We do understand, at length, “the philosophy of that jocoseness" which troubled some of us at times while he lived. It was the oil lubricating the overtasked mechanism of that patient body and mind. It was the kind disguise, under which he concealed from us the deep anxiety of his heart, and bade us hope on,