soul, which combats or dissembles its secret trouble. The Prince of Condé knew not how to utter such pompous sentences; in death, as in life, truth ever formed his true grandeur. His confession was humble, full of penitence and trust. He required no long time to prepare it; the best preparation for such a confession is not to wait for it as a last resort. But give attention to what follows. At the sight of the holy Viaticum, which he so much desired, see how deeply he is affected. Then he remembers the irreverence with which, alas! he had sometimes dishonored that Divine mystery. Calling to mind all the sins which he had committed, but too feeble to give utterance to his intense feelings, he borrowed the voice of his confessor to ask pardon of the world, of his domestics, and of his friends. They replied with their tears. Ah! reply ye now, profiting by that example! The other duties of religion were performed with the same devotion and self-possession. With what faith and frequency did he, kissing the cross, pray the Savior of the world that his blood, shed for him, might not prove in vain! This it is which justifies the sinner, which sustains the righteous, which reassures the Christian. Three times did he cause the prayers for those in anguish to be repeated, and ever with renewed consolation. In thanking his physicians, "See," said he, "my true physicians," pointing to the ecclesiastics to whose teachings he had listened, and in whose prayers he joined. The Psalms were always upon his lips, and formed the joy of his heart. If he complained, it was only that he suffered so little in reparation for his sins. Sensible to the last of the tenderness of his friends, he never permitted himself to be overcome by it; on the contrary, he was afraid of yielding too much to nature. What shall I say of his last interview with the Duke d'Enghien ? What colors are vivid enough to represent to you the constancy of the father, the extreme grief of the son? Bathed in tears, his voice choked with sobs, he clasps his dying father, then falls back, then again rushes into his arms, as if by such means he would retain that dear object of his affection; his strength gives way, and he falls at his feet. The Prince, without being moved, waits for his recovery; then calling the Duchess, his daughter-inlaw, whom he also sees speechless, and almost without life, with a tenderness in which nothing of weakness is visible, he gives them his last commands, all of which are instinct with piety. He closes with those prayers which God ever hears, like Jacob,

invoking a blessing upon them, and upon each of their children in particular. Nor shall I forget thee, O Prince, his dear nephew, nor the glorious testimony which he constantly tendered to your merit, nor his tender zeal on your behalf, nor the letter which he wrote, when dying, to reinstate you in the favor of the king,- the dearest object of your wishes,-nor the noble qualities which made you worthy to occupy, with so much interest, the last hours of so good a life. Nor shall I forget the goodness of the King, which anticipated the desires of the dying Prince; nor the generous cares of the Duke d'Enghien, who promoted that favor; nor the satisfaction which he felt in fulfilling the wishes of his dying father. While his heart is expanded, and his voice animated in praising the king, the Prince de Contí arrives, penetrated with gratitude and grief. His sympathies are renewed afresh; and the two princes hear what they will never permit to escape from their heart. The Prince concludes, by assuring them that they could never be great men, nor great princes, nor honorable persons, except so far as they possessed real goodness, and were faithful to God and the king. These were the last words which he left engraven on their memorythis was the last token of his affection the epitome of their duties.

All were in tears, and weeping aloud. The Prince alone was unmoved; trouble came not into that asylum where he had cast himself. O God, thou wert his strength and his refuge, and, as David says, the immovable rock upon which he placed his confidence.

Tranquil in the arms of his God, he waited for his salvation, and implored his support, until he finally ceased to breathe. And here our lamentations ought to break forth at the loss of so great a man. But for the love of the truth, and the shame of those who despise it, listen once more to that noble testimony which he bore to it in dying. Informed by his confessor that if our heart is not entirely right with God, we must, in our addresses, ask God himself to make it such as he pleases, and address him in the affecting language of David, "O God, create in me a clean heart." Arrested by these words, the Prince pauses, as if occupied with some great thought; then calling the ecclesiastic who had suggested the idea, he says: "I have never doubted the mysteries of religion, as some have reported.» Christians, you ought to believe him; for in the state he then

was, he owed to the world nothing but truth.

"But," added he, "I doubt them less than ever. May these truths," he continued, "reveal and develop themselves more and more clearly in my mind. Yes!" says he, "we shall see God as he is, face to face!» With a wonderful relish he repeated in Latin those lofty words"As he is-face to face!" Nor could those around him grow weary of seeing him in so sweet a transport. What was then taking place in that soul? What new light dawned upon him? What sudden ray pierced the cloud, and instantly dissipated, not only all the darkness of sense, but the very shadows, and if I dare to say it, the sacred obscurities of faith? What then became of those splendid titles by which our pride is flattered? On the very verge of glory, and in the dawning of a light so beautiful, how rapidly vanish the phantoms of the world! How dim appears the splendor of the most glorious victory! How profoundly we despise the glory of the world, and how deeply regret that our eyes were ever dazzled by its radiance. Come, ye people, come now-or rather ye princes and lords, ye judges of the earth, and ye who open to man the portals of heaven; and more than all others, ye princes and princesses, nobles descended from a long line of kings, lights of France, but to-day in gloom, and covered with your grief, as with a cloud, come and see how little remains of a birth so august, a grandeur so high, a glory so dazzling. Look around on all sides, and see all that magnificence and devotion can do to honor so great a hero; titles and inscriptions, vain signs of that which is no moreshadows which weep around a tomb, fragile images of a grief which time sweeps away with everything else; columns which appear as if they would bear to heaven the magnificent evidence of our emptiness; nothing, indeed, is wanting in all these honors but he to whom they are rendered! Weep then over these feeble remains of human life; weep over that mournful immortality we give to heroes. But draw near, especially ye who run, with such ardor, the career of glory, intrepid and warrior spirits! Who was more worthy to command you, and in whom did ye find command more honorable? Mourn then that great Captain, and weeping, say: "Here is the man that led us through all hazards, under whom were formed so many renowned captains, raised by his example, to the highest honors of war; his shadow might yet gain battles, and lo! in his silence, his very name animates us, and at the same time warns us, that to find, at death, some rest

from our toils, and not arrive unprepared at our eternal dwelling, we must, with an earthly king, yet serve the King of Heaven." Serve then that immortal and ever merciful King, who will value a sigh or a cup of cold water, given in his name, more than all others will value the shedding of your blood. And begin to reckon the time of your useful services from the day on which you gave yourselves to so beneficent a Master. Will not ye too come, ye whom he honored by making you his friends? To whatever extent you enjoyed this confidence, come all of you, and surround this tomb. Mingle your prayers with your tears; and while admiring, in so great a prince, a friendship so excellent, an intercourse so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose goodness equaled his courage. Thus may he ever prove your cherished instructor; thus may you profit by his virtues; and may his death, which you deplore, serve you at once for consolation and example. For myself, if permitted, after all others, to render the last offices at this tomb, O Prince, the worthy subject of our praises and regrets, thou wilt live forever in my memory. There will thy image be traced, but not with that bold aspect which promises victory. No, I would see in you nothing which death can efface. You will have in that image only immortal traits. I shall behold you such as you were in your last hours under the hand of God, when his glory began to dawn upon you. There shall I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg and at Rocroy; and ravished by so gloriɔus a triumph, I shall give thanks in the beautiful words of the wellbeloved disciple, "This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith." Enjoy, O Prince, this victory, enjoy it forever, through the everlasting efficacy of that sacrifice. Accept these last efforts of a voice once familiar to you. With you these discourses shall end. Instead of deploring the death of others, great Prince, I would henceforth learn from you to render my own holy, happy, if reminded by these white locks cf the account which I must give of my ministry, I reserve for the flock, which I have to feed with the word of life, the remnants of a voice which falters, and an ardor which is fading away.

ELIAS BOUDINOT

(1740-1821)

S "President of Congress," Elias Boudinot signed the treaty of peace with England which gave the United States their independence. This fact no doubt led to his selection by the Order of the Cincinnati to deliver one of the very earliest of those set Fourth of July orations which moved our ancestors to admiration, inspired them with pride in the institutions of the country, and encouraged in them that readiness for self-sacrifice without which, when the emergency calls for it, the "American idea» must become a demonstrated impossibility.

If, as a result of changing tastes, the patriotic orations of the first quarter of a century under the Constitution no longer stir the responsive emotions they once did, the zeal which inspired, the hope which animated, the earnestness which compelled them, can never be otherwise than admirable to all who are still in sympathy with the ideal towards which these men strove. For it must be remembered always in judging them that their hopes were lofty and that they had a faith as deep as the hope was high. They believed that they and their descendants had been chosen by heaven to set the world an example, the force of which would finally establish liberty and justice as the directing impulses of the whole earth. In order to understand them, it is necessary to keep this in view. There is an intense earnestness behind such words as these of Boudinot:

"It is our duty, then, as a people acting on principles of universal application, to convince mankind of the truth and practicability of them by carrying them into actual exercise for the happiness of our fellow-men, without suffering them to be perverted to oppression and licentiousness.»

The idea which animated Boudinot, as it did so many others of his time, was that it is the destiny of America to demonstrate to all men that moral force is the true basis of government, and that physical force must, "in the long run," give way before it. "The eyes of the nations of the world are fast opening," says Boudinot, "and the inhabitants of this globe, notwithstanding it is three thousand years since the promulgation of the precept, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,' are just beginning to discover their brotherhood to each other, and that all men, however different as regards