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The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,

And living as if earth contained no tomb,

And glowing into day : we may resume
The march of our existence; and thus I,

Still on thy shores, fair Leman, may find room,
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly.



HORACE GREELEY was born in Amherst, New Hampshire, in 1811. Obliged by his father's poverty to rely on his own resources, he began at the age of fifteen to learn the art of printing. After four years in a newspaper office in Vermont, he sought employment in the city of New York, where he arrived in August, 1831. It was with difficulty that he obtained work; for the personal appearance and manners of the poor boy were not particularly attractive, and he was entirely without friends in the metropolis.

But his indomitable energy and industry overcame all obstacles. Successively he published “The Morning Post,” “The New-Yorker,” “The Jeffersonian,” “The LogCabin,” and “The New York Tribune,” and finally became recognized as the foremost of American journalists. The influence which he exerted, first as a Whig, and afterwards as a Republican, was great. A self-made man, his sympathy with the toiling masses was intense. His great theme, though stated with a hundred varying titles, was the emancipation of labor and the elevation of the laboring man.

In 1872 he was the candidate of the Liberal Republicans and Democrats for the Presidency of the United States. His campaign speeches, which were very numerous, were characterized by extraordinary scope, vigor, and fertility of thought. He survived his defeat but a few weeks.

Among his published works are “Hints toward Reforms,” “Recollections of a Busy Life,” “Glances at Europe,” and “The American Conflict.” The chief characteristics of his style are clearness, conciseness, and a fiery energy. The following extract, showing that he was not lacking in grace or tenderness of sentiment, forms the closing pages of his “Glances at Europe."

UT I must not linger. The order to embark is

given ; our good ship Baltic is ready; another hour and I shall have left England and this Continent, proba


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bly forever. With a fervent good-by to the friends I leave on this side of the Atlantic, I turn my steps gladly and proudly toward my own loved western home, toward the land wherein man enjoys larger opportunities than elsewhere to develop the better and the worse aspects of his nature, and where evil and good have a freer course, a wider arena for their inevitable struggles, than is allowed them among the heavy fetters and castiron forms of this rigid and wrinkled Old World.

Doubtless, those struggles will long be arduous and trying; doubtless, the dictates of duty will there often bear sternly away from the halcyon bowers of popularity; doubtless, he who would be singly and wholly right must there encounter ordeals as severe as those which here try the souls of the would-be champions of progress and liberty. But political freedom, such as white men enjoy in the United States, and the mass do not enjoy in Europe, not even in Britain, is a basis for confident and well-grounded hope; the running stream, though turbid, tends ever to self-purification; the obstructed, stagnant pool grows daily more dank and loathsome.

Believing most firmly in the ultimate and perfect triumph of good over evil, I rejoice in the existence and diffusion of that liberty which, while it intensifies the contest, accelerates the consummation. Neither blind to her errors, nor a pander to her vices, I rejoice to feel that every hour henceforth, till I see her shores, must lessen the distance which divides me from my country, whose advantages and blessings this four months' absence has taught me to appreciate more clearly and to prize more deeply than before.

With a glow of unwonted rapture I see our stately vessel's prow turned toward the setting sun, and strive

to realize that only some ten days separate me from those I know and love best on earth. Hark! the last gun announces that the mail-boat has left us, and that we are fairly afloat on our ocean journey; the shores of Europe recede from our vision; the watery waste is all around us; and now, with God above and death below, our gallant bark and her clustered company together brave the dangers of the mighty deep. May infinite mercy watch over our onward path and bring us safely to our several homes; for to die away from home and kindred seems one of the saddest calamities that could befall me.

This mortal tenement would rest uneasily in an ocean shroud; this spirit reluctantly resign that tenement to the chill and pitiless brine; these eyes close regretfully on the stranger skies and bleak inhospitality of the sullen and stormy main. No! let me see once more the scenes so well remembered and beloved ; let me grasp, if but once again, the hand of friendship and hear the thrilling accents of proved affection, and when, sooner or later, the hour of mortal agony shall come, let my last gaze be fixed on eyes that will not forget me when I am gone, and let my ashes repose in that congenial soil which, however I may there be esteemed or hated, is still

My own green land forever!”



THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old ;-
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares :

The bank may break, the factory burn; Some breath


burst his bubble shares; And soft, white hands would hardly earn

A living that would suit his turn;-
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants :

His stomach craves for dainty fare ; With sated heart he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy-chair ;-
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit ?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part

useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the


man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit;

Content that from employment springs ;

A heart that in his labor sings ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

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