social order, which they bequeathed to us; remembering that we are all brethren of the same household, wending our way together to a common and a final home. May then our skies be bright and joyous, our sunshine genial, our hopes buoyant and our hearts thankful, that we may bless and cheer each other by the way.

More than half a century since, a little boy, led by the hand of an elder brother, as a member of his father's family, found an humble home in Chenango but a few miles distant from this place. The inhabitants were sparse, and but here and there a tenement of logs broke the monotony of dense and tangled forests. The wild deer browsed in every thicket, the panther crouched for his prey, and the wolf howled nightly around the dwelling. Here he gathered nature's fruits and flowers, learned to love the song of the wild bird, to pursue the game, and to gaze with childish delight upon nature's unbroken scenery; to range along its winding streamlets, to climb its romantic hill-sides, to mingle in the rustic sports of the time and neighborhood, and to wield the implements of husbandry in aiding to procure subsistence. He saw its first school-houses and churches rise up in the wilderness, its brave sons march to the defence of the frontier in 1812. And here he grew up to manhood, and went out upon the mission of life to conquer in its battles or be driven from its field. But when he went out, he went out forever. That same child-boy of the early settlement has never returned. That buoyant spirit and heart which knew neither sorrow nor bereavement, but was joyous as the wood-bird's song, must still range in some fairy land of flowers and spring life, where a brighter sunshine gilds the unseen hill-tops and the glad eye of childhood sparkles forever! He that was once that boy has returned, but it is not the same. "A change has come over the spirit of his dream.” The golden ringlets of boyhood, which were tossed in the morning breeze, are now whitened by the frosts of life's approaching winter, and the ruddy brow of youth is blanched with thought and care and grief. Great are the changes which his eventful life has experienced. Dark and deep are the waves which have rolled in painful succession over life's sea of sorrow. He has reared children, and committed their remains to the kindred dust. He has been called away from the

scenes of his early years, and has stood in the forum and in senates with the great and honored of the land; but he has remembered his humble home, and his rustic occupations, and his associates, and the pursuits to which he was endeared, and the rural scenes that he loved "as only boyhood can," and all the lights and shadows which chequer the pathway of the young.

But time has ploughed her furrows, and sowed her seeds, and gathered in her harvests, and all has changed. Herds low and flocks bleat where the wolf howled and the bear roamed, the dark forest has given place to the extended meadow, and the church has risen upon the Indian wigwam, and the schoolhouse upon the rude cabin of the hunter. The aged men, into whose faces he peered with childish curiosity, long since passed away. Those who were then of the middle age sleep with their fathers; of those who set out with him upon the journey of life, on its cloudless morning, death has the majority; and the graveyard which he saw opened in the brushwood for the remains of a little child, is now tenanted by thousands. The schoolmaster has dismissed his noisy flock and lain down to rest forever, and the scholars are scattered from the rising to the setting sun; the good old parson, who preached occasionally at the little school-house at the cross-roads, has pronounced his last benediction and gone to his rewards; and the deacon meeting, which came with all the certainty of the returning Sabbath, with its sun-burned farmers and sturdy woodsmen, and their plain-clad wives and children, has ceased to assemble. Those who made the prayer, and set the psalm, and read the sermon, now worship above, and the music of that voice whose strains rose to heaven in the choir has died away upon earth and is attuned to the harps of angels in Paradise.

The lowly tenement in which he was reared through storm and sunshine has yielded to a more ambitious structure; a strange watch-dog heralds his appearance, and unknown forms are at the door and around the fireside, and strange faces are at the window, and unfamiliar voices there hold converse together. The parents who nurtured him with a solicitude known only to a parent have bowed their sainted heads in the dust, and their holy ashes rest upon the hill-side near the little church where they loved to worship God, "far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble strife."

Yes, the same boy returns again, but it is when

"Sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams in their development have breath
And tears and tortures and a touch of joy :

And make us what we are not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by."

There, clad in the same rustic garb, he ranges along Chenango's streams again; he gathers the flowers of spring, the fruits of summer, and the nuts of autumn; he clambers up the familiar hill-side, and quenches his thirst at the spring which bubbles beneath the old rock by the clump of trees. He pursues the wild bird and the squirrel, and springs the rabbit and the partridge, and, returning, performs his round of accustomed duties, and sits down with the group of loved ones to the family repast. When night closes down, he is called to "share in childish prayer and join in evening hymn;" he sleeps that sleep which is given only to the young amidst rural scenes, and returns to his favorite sports and occupations, and knows no sorrow. But he is far off in the dreamland ! Alas! the spirit of his boyhood has flown away forever with the birds that cheered it, and he awakes to the countless cares and realities of the life to which destiny consigned him!

All that is Chenango is dear to me: its configuration, its hills and valleys, its institutions, and its people. Its beauty was an early vision of childhood, and the solace of maturer. years. Its beloved valley is my home. My life march has kept pace with the soul-stirring music of its woods and its mountain streams. Its wild, captivating scenery fashioned my nature, and made me love the rural retreat more than to worship with crowds or bask in the favor of courts. Chenango! I love thee as the cradle where I was nurtured, as the home of my childhood and youth, and the harbor from whence I launched my frail bark upon the great and troubled ocean of man's toils and trials; for the affection I bear thy living, for the green graves and holy memories of thy venerated dead. Yes, thou watchful mother of my capricious childhood I love thee still!

"In all my journeyings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and heaven has given my share—
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst its humble bowers to lay me down-
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hope, for hope attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw.

And as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first ho flew,
I still had hopes-my long vexations past--
Here to return, and die at home at last."

SPEECH

DELIVERED AT A GRAND RATIFICATION MEETING OF THE DEMO

CRATIC PARTY, HELD AT ST. JAMES HALL, BUFFALO, October 20, 1859.

MR. PRESIDENT AND FELLOW-CITIZENS -The legitimate consideration of our political condition, by assembling together and comparing opinions, is a high duty and a proud privilege. It awakens popular attention to concerns of deep public moment, too generally neglected, and learns the inquiring mind to think for itself, and to rise above the narrow conceits of mere partisan rallying-words, designations, and pretensions. Its tendency is to educate the masses in public affairs, and make the government what it should be, a goverment of the people, and not of politicians; a government of the many, and not of the few, and to hold public servants to a rigid accountability before a well-informed constituency. When political gatherings, meetings, or conventions are so conducted as to elevate and liberalize the mind and to mitigate partisan prejudice, spleen, and rancor, they render a high public service; when they have no worthier aims than inculcating error and stimulating passion for a temporary advantage, they would be "more honored in the breach than in the observance."

There are, and always will be, in our political system two great parties, and two only; for all others must be mere temporary off-shoots. One of these will be the party of the people and of the Constitution, and the other will be of miscellaneous formation, acting under a roving commission, as impelled by immediate circumstances. In this address I shall treat of parties entirely as such; of the pretensions they advance, the professions they make, and the works they accomplish.