of the national life.  It may take the form of patriotism, as in this country, pride in the great republic, jealousy of its honor and credit, eagerness for its commanding position among the nations, patriotism which will show itself, in all the ardor of believing youth, in the administration of law, in the purity of politics, in honest local government, and in a noble aspiration for the glory of the country.  It may take the form of culture, of a desire that the republic-liable, like all self-made nations, to worship wealth-should be distinguished not so much by a vulgar national display as by an advance in the arts, the sciences, the education that adorns life, in the noble spirit of humanity, and in the nobler spirit of recognition of a higher life, which will be content with no civilization that does not tend to make the country for every citizen a better place to live in today than it was yesterday.  Happy is the country, happy the metropolis of that country, whose fortunate young men have this high conception of citizenship!

What is the ideal of their country which these young men cherish?  There was a moment—­was there not for them?—­in the late war for the Union, when the republic was visible to them in its beauty, in its peril, and in a passion of devotion they were eager—­were they not?—­to follow the flag and to give their brief lives to its imperishable glory.  Nothing is impossible to a nation with an ideal like that.  It was this flame that ran over Europe in the struggle of France against a world in arms.  It was this national ideal that was incarnate in Napoleon, as every great idea that moves the world is sooner or later incarnated.  What was it that we saw in Washington on his knees at Valley Forge, or blazing with wrath at the cowardice on Monmouth? in Lincoln entering Richmond with bowed head and infinite sorrow and yearning in his heart?  An embodiment of a great national idea and destiny.

In France this ideal burns yet like a flame, and is still evoked by a name.  It is the passion of glory, but the desire of a nation, and Napoleon was the incarnation of passion.  They say that he is not dead as others are dead, but that he may come again and ride at the head of his legions, and strike down the enemies of France; that his bugle will call the youth from every hamlet, that the roll of his drum will transform France into a camp, and the grenadiers will live again and ride with him, amid hurrahs, and streaming tears, and shouts of “My Emperor!  Oh, my Emperor!” Is it only a legend?  But the spirit is there; not a boy but dreams of it, not a girl but knots the thought in with her holiday tricolor.  That is to have an abiding ideal, and patiently to hold it, in isolation, in defeat, even in an overripe civilization.

We believe—­do we not?—­in other triumphs than those of the drum and the sword.  Our aspirations for the republic are for a nobler example of human society than the world has yet seen.  Happy is the country, and the metropolis of the country, whose youth, gilded only by their virtues, have these aspirations.