heart and hearth and home. There is such a sorrow as this land never
knew before; agony such as never until now wrung the heart of the
nation. In mansion and cottage, alike, do the people bow themselves.

We have been through the Red Sea of war, and across the weary,
desert marches of griefs and bereavements, but heretofore we have
felt that _our leader_ was with us, and believed that surely as Moses
was led by the pillar of cloud and of fire, so did God lead him.

But now that leader is not. Slain, slain by the hand of the
assassin, murdered beside his wife! The costliest blood has been
shed, the clearest eye is closed, the strongest arm is nerveless--the
Chief Magistrate is no more. "The mighty man cries bitterly; the day
is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness
and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and
thick darkness."

It is no mere official mourning which hangs its sad drapery
everywhere. It is not alone that a President of the Republic is, for
the first time, assassinated. No; there is a tender grief that
characterizes the bereavement of a loved friend, which shows there
was something in this man which grappled him to men's hearts as with
hooks of steel.

But mourning the death of the Chief Magistrate, it becomes us to
review the elements of his career as a ruler, which have so endeared
him to loyal hearts.

If I were to sketch the model statesman, I would say he must have
mental breadth and clearness, incorruptible integrity, strength of