tingly you wouldn't wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein' broke of his rest o’nights 'cause he was so put to 't for breath when he laid down. Why, it is an onaccountable fact that when that man died he hadn't seen a well day in fifteen year, though when he was married and for five or six years after I shouldn't desire to see a ruggeder man than what he was. But the time I'm speakin' of he'd been out of health nigh upon ten year, and O dear sakes! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him ! That was to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's a spell afore Sally was married. I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergrass. She'd ben keepin' company with Mose Hewlitt for better'n a year, and everybody said that was a settled thing, and lo and behold! all of a sudding she up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well, that was the first time I ever see my husband, and if anybody'd told me then that I should ever marry him, I should a said

But I was a gwine to tell you what my husband said. He says to me, says he, “Silly”; says I, What?" I didn't say “ What, Hezekier?” for I didn't like his name. The first time I ever heard it I near killed myself a laffin'. “Hezekier Bedott,” says I, “ well, I would give up if I had sich a name; but then you know I had no more idee o' marryin' the feller than you had this minute o marryin' the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should a named our oldest son Hezekier. Well, we done it to please father and mother Bedott. It's father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go down from gineration to gineration. But we always called him Kier, you know. Speakin' o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he? and I ain't the only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a leetle out of her reckonin’. But I was going to tell what husband said,

Vol. XXIV.-15

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He says to me, says he, “ Silly," I says, says I, “What?” If I didn't say

“ What," when he said Silly," he'd a kept on saying "Silly," from time to eternity. He always did, because, you know, he wanted me to pay particular attention, and I ginerrly did; no ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, Silly.” Says I “What? ” though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say, didn't know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa’n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldn't wish his first enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin' - think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he didn't. He and me went once in the dead o' winter in a one-hoss slay out to Boonville to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband didn't. He only said, said he, Consarn it.” How did we get out, did you ask? Why we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadn't a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team end they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he,“ Silly” (I could see by the light o' the fire, there didn't happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I know we wa’n’t apt to burn candles exceptin' when we had company). I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he,

Silly.” Says I, “What? He says to me, says he, “We're all Poor critters!- Widow Bedott Papers.

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HITE, ANDREW DICKSON, an American diplo

mat and educator; born at Homer, N. Y.,

November 2, 1832. He was graduated from Yale in 1853; traveled in Europe; studied at Sorbonne and College de France from 1853 to 1854; attaché to legation of the United States, St. Petersburg, 1854 to 1855; studied in the University of Berlin, 1855 to 1856; Professor of History and English Literature, University of Michigan, 1857 to 1863; returned to Syracuse and was elected State Senator, in which capacity (1863 to 1867) he introduced reports and bills codifying the school laws, creating a new system of normal schools, establishing a new health board in the city of New York, and incorporating Cornell University at Ithaca. He was chosen first president of that university in 1866; visited Europe to purchase books and apparatus therefor, and make special study of European educational methods. He has in addition to the presidency filled the chair of modern history. He was one of the Commissioners to Santo Domingo in 1871 and a Commissioner to the Paris Exposition in 1878. He was Minister to Germany in 1879-1881, and to Russia in 1892–1894. He was a member of the Venezuelan Boundary Commission and Ambassador to Germany from 1897 to 1903. He was President of the American delegation at The Hague Peace Conference. Mr. White was a regent of the. Smithsonian Institution and an officer of the Legion of Honor of France. His principal works are: The Warfare of Science (1876); History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom (1897); European Schools of History; The New Germany; Chapters from My Diplomatic Life (1903).

The following selection formed part of the address of Ambassador White at the farewell banquet given to him November 11, 1904. It was a most remarkable occasion, in which the Imperial Government, the diplomatic corps, the Universities, the Royal Academy, and leading representatives of science, literature and art were present. In a certain sense the address of Dr. White was his “farewell testament ” to Germany. Previously, in various addresses, he had endeavored to reveal Germany to Americans; he now sought to reveal America to Germans, in the hope of promoting the growth of good relations between the two countries.


THERE is no function of a foreign representative in any great State more important than bringing the nation from which he comes and the nation to which he goes into a closer understanding of each other. A very eminent thinker once said,“ The man I do not like is generally the man I do not know.” The same may be said of nations.

Having long labored to acquaint America with Germany,


may the more freely ask permission to do something to acquaint Germany with America.

The first thing to which I would call attention is a fact well known to thinking Americans, but little known to the rest of the world. It is the fact thať the people of the United States, while on a superficial view the most materialistic of rations, are, at the same time, among those most powerfully swayed by beliefs, ideals and sentiment. Many of you will be inclined to doubt this; but, from a long experience, I can assure you that those gravely err in any estimate of the history of the United States who leave this fact out of their calculations. In no country can the action of these two forces

apparently so antagonistic — making, on the one side, for the practical, and, on the other, for the ideal, be seen more vigorously acting and reacting on each other. There are utterances appealing to ideal considerations, in the Declaration of Independence, in Washington's Farewell Address, in Daniel Webster's Reply to Hayne, in President Jackson's Declaration Regarding the Union and in Lincoln's Speech at Gettysburg, which millions on millions of Americans regard as oracles, as inspired commands, compared to which all material advantage is as nothing.

In every one of the great political struggles of the Union thus far this influence of ideals can be clearly seen, and the same thing is true regarding every one of the wars in which the American Republic has been engaged thus far.

A typical example was seen in the great Civil War. From a materialistic point of view, the arguments against any such struggle were infinitely strong. Every one saw them and felt them. Still, the deep sentiment of moral and intellectual aversion toward slavery more and more conquered this materialistic feeling. It seemed for some years that the material interests of the nation might, after all, conquer. We were told that in case of war with the slave power the cotton supply would be lost, and that grass would grow in the streets of our great cities.

There was an enormous party, probably a majority, in the Union, who believed this doctrine of materialism and tried to subordinate to it moral consideration and our national ideal. Suddenly all this fabric of materialistic thought was whiffed away in a moment. The cannot-shot fired at the American flag on Fort Sumter at Charleston gave a united sentiment to the American people which swept away all materialistic considerations. This sentiment was not a mere sudden, flash of anger; it was a conviction and a devotion as real and as permanent as that which seized Saul of Tarsus on his way to Damascus. This it was which, against all disappointments and defeats, kept up the courage and the energy of the loyal part of the Union during the four terrible years which led to the triumph of nationality and the destruction of slavery.

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