of those times, while Scipio Africanus is known to the ear only as a name, and the heroic defence of Carthage, when the women of that devoted city plaited their long tresses into bow-strings for the archers, and beat their jewels into arrow points, remains among the inspirations of history. Or, to take more modern instance, England made the literature of her time—Scotland made none; England conquered—Scotland was overcome; and yet none remembers the victorious Edward——he has passed and is forgotten—but the names of William Wallace and Robert Bruce are graven ineffaceably upon the ‘Chronicles of Nations’ and the story of their deeds and their sufferings have been strangely intertwined with all that is noblest and best in human action. Nothing lives, either in story or in song, but that which appeals to the heart of humanity; and nothing on God's earth so moves the sympathies of man as when the weak are seen defending their honor, their principles or their homes—against the strong. The instincts of man incline to the overpowered, and these instincts are the best and dominant guides in the construction of history. ‘The triumphs of might,’ brute force crushing power, have no admirable aspect, awaken no worthy sentiment, possess no inspiration; but there is something allied to our higher and God-born nature in suffering for the right, something we instinctively feel must not be permitted to perish from the earth, something which man, for man's sake, must guard with zealous care and transmit as the heirloom of generations. Therefore, Sir, if the same laws prevail in the future as have prevailed in the past, you need have no apprehension of misrepresentation. The righteousness of your cause precludes fear. You may commit the principles for which you fought, you may confide the story of your deeds, you may consign the heritage of heroism you have bequeathed the world, with confident expectation of justice, to the hands of the annalist. In seeds of laurel in the earth,
The blossom of your fame is blown;
And somewhere waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.
But, Sir, I am reminded by the presence of two guests at your banquet, that it cannot be truthfully said the South is making no literature. The presence here (if I may be pardoned personal allusion) of the Author of the Life of Lee, who as Editor of the Southern Historical Society Papers, is accumulating the material for the future historian—a work the importance of which I fear we do not