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I sympathize with every honest effort made by the children of labor to improve their condition. That is a poorly governed in which those who do the most have the least. There is something wrong when men are obliged. to beg for leave to toil. We are not yet a civilized people. When we are. pauperism and crime will vanish from our land.

THE POOR HAVE A CHANCE.

There is one thing, however, of which I am glad and

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proud, and that is, that society is not, in our country, petrified; that the poor are not always poor. The children of the poor of this generation may and probably will be the rich of the next. The sons of the rich of this generation may be the poor of the next; so that, after all, the rich fear and the poor hope.

It is the glory of the United States that the poor man can take his boy upon his knee and say:

"My son, all the avenues of distinction are open to you. You can rise. There is no station no position, to which you may not aspire. The poverty of your father will not be a mill-stone about your neck. The public schools are open to you. For you there is education, honor, fame and prosperity."

These thoughts render holy every drop of sweat that rolls down the face of honest toil.

TRAMPS.

I sympathize with the wanderers, with the vagrants out of employment, with the sad and weary men who are seeking for work. When I see one of these men, poor and friendless-no matter how bad he is, I think that somebody loved him once-that he was once held in the arms of a mother-that he slept beneath her loving eyes and wakened in the light of her smile. I see him in the cradle, listening to lullabies, sung soft and low, and his little face is dimpled as though touched by the rosy fingers of joy. And then I think of the strange and winding paths-the weary roads he has traveled from that mother's arms to vagrancy and want. There should be labor and food for all.

We invent.

We enslave

We take advantage of the forces of nature. the wind and waves. We put shackles upon the unseen powers. These slaves should release from bondage all the sons of men.

CONCLUSION.

Now, I have said nothing to-night about the politics

of your State. It is nothing to me.

The people of

Massachussetts have ability enough to attend to their own affairs, and any one of the gentlemen running, no doubt, if he is elected Governor, has plenty of genius to attend to the pardoning of criminals in this State and the

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about that; but I implore you do not imagine wealth can be created by law; I implore you do not preach the heresy that you can pay one promise by making another that you take your oath never to fulfill. Do not, I implore

you, teach the people that the rich have conspired to trample them in the dust.

Since 1873 thousands of millions of articles have been made that could not be sold, and I may say that a majority of the men who have been employed are bankrupts to-day. Let us be honest, let us teach others to be honest, and let us tell these men not to envy the man who has been successful. That is not right; there is no sense in that. Let each one rely upon himself and help others all he can, and let all understand that we are entering upon an era of prosperity such as America never knew before.

We are a great people; we are a free people; we make our own laws; we have the power in our own hands; we can protect ourselves, and I beg the laboring men to see that the laws are all enforced. We want honest money, so that a man who gets a little laid by for wife and children when he is dead, that it will be a consolation to him, so that he will know it will stay good after he is dead; that it will in some degree take his place and buy food and clothing, so that he will not be compelled to close his eyes on fiat money.

If it is ever issued, it will never be redeemed. If it is ever issued it will bring about inflation, that will bring about universal repudiation. It will end in National dishonor. If there is any State in the Union that will help save our country from the crime of repudiation, it is the glorious old Commonwealth of Massachussetts.

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ORATION AT A CHILD'S GRAVE.

In a remote corner of the Congressional Cemetery, at Washington, a small group of people, with uncovered heads, were ranged around a newly opened grave. They included Detective and Mrs. George O. Miller and family and friends, who had gathered to witness the burial of the former's bright little son Harry, a victim of diphtheria. As the casket rested upon the trestles there was a painful pause, broken only by the mother's sobs, until the undertaker advanced toward a stout florid-complexioned gentleman in the party and whispered to him, the words being inaudible to the lookers-on.

This gentleman was Col. Robert G. Ingersoll; a friend of the Millers, who had attended the funeral at their request. He shook his head when the undertaker first addressed him, and then said suddenly; "Does Mrs. Miller desire it?"

The undertaker gave an affirmative nod. Mr. Miller looked appealingly toward the distinguished orator, and then Col. Ingersoll advanced to the side of the grave, made a motion denoting a desire for silence, and, in a voice of exquisite cadence, delivered one of his characteristic eulogies of the dead. He spoke as follows:

MY FRIENDS: I know how vain it is to gild a grief

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