came near their fulfilment. The next summoned to the eternal bar was David C. Broderick, of California. God had stamped him for a leader. Too virtuous to be bribed, too fearless to falter, too disinterested to be corruptly ambitious, he sleeps on the breezy hills that overlook the proud metropolis of his adopted State, within the sound of the anthem of the sea, surrounded by a population who loved him living and mourn him dead. [Applause.] Slaughtered for his opinions, deliberately marked out for sacrifice, his farewell words were a sad presage to the events of which his death was the equally sad beginning: "They have killed me because I was opposed to the extension of Slavery and a corrupt Administration."

And then, saddest loss of all, comes the death of the man, who, however criticised during his eventful struggle with Power, was the leader of the most heroic, disinterested protest against political crime in high places our New World has ever known. The men engaged with Douglas, in this protest, were Democrats whose whole experience had been that of close relationship with Southern statesmen, and that of earnest devotion to Southern rights. When they took up arms against their party organization, it was not without reluctance. When they arrayed themselves against an Administration new in office, and in the full possession of undisposed-of patronage, they did not do so without counting the cost of the experiment. They were reminded of others, in by-gone days, who had grappled with power and had fallen under its severe displeasure; but they were men of iron nerve and conscientious convictions. They felt that, whatever might happen to them, the truths they advocated must triumph, and so they persevered till the whole work of destiny was completed. [Applause.]

The three characters alluded to, were characters of extraordinary endurance, fitted to give counsel to common party lead

ers-created for the bitterest responsibilities of the scenes in which they lived. They began their movement full of determination-they closed their connection with it by offering their lives as an evidence of their sincerity.

I am not accustomed to the habit of studied eulogy. Realizing, profoundly, the loss of our great national leader, who fell in the prime of life, and at a moment when he would have been most effective to defend the Administration of the general Government against the attacks of secret and of open enemies, and, with no disposition to invade the sanctity of that home of which he was the household god, I can only repeat, in conclusion, the appropriate lines of Walter Scott:

"He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font reappearing,

From the rain drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering

No Douglas to-morrow.

"The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds, rushing,

Waft the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

"Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and forever!"