I confess, gentlemen, that I shared those expectations, which the nations of Europe have conceived from America.  Was I too sanguine in my wishes to hope, that in these expectations I shall not fail?  So much I dare say, that I conceived these expectations not without encouragement on your own part.

With this let me draw to a close.  One word often tells more than a volume of skilful eloquence.  When crossing the Alleghany mountains, in a new country, scarcely yet settled, bearing at every step the mark of a new creation, I happened to see a new house in ruins.  I felt astonished to see a ruin in America.  There must have been misfortune in that house—­the hand of God may have stricken him, thought I, and inquired from one of the neighbours, “What has become of the man?” “Nothing particular,” answered he:  “he went to the West—­he was too comfortable here.  American pioneers like to be uncomfortable.”  It was but one word, yet worth a volume.  It made me more correctly understand the character of your people and the mystery of your inner prodigious growth, than a big volume of treatises upon the spirit of America might have done.  The instinct of indomitable energy, all the boundless power hidden in the word “go ahead,” lay open before my eyes.  I felt by a glance what immense things might be accomplished by that energy, to the honour and lasting welfare of all humanity, if only its direction be not misled—­and I pray to God that he may preserve your people from being absorbed in materialism.  The proud results of egotism vanish in the following generation like the fancy of a dream; but the smallest real benefit bestowed upon mankind is lasting like eternity.  People of America! thy energy is wonderful; but for thy own sake, for thy future’s sake, for all humanity’s sake, beware!  Oh! beware from measuring good and evil by the arguments of materialists.

I have seen too many sad and bitter hours in my stormy life, not to remember every word of true consolation which happened to brighten my way.

It was nearly four months ago, and still I remember it, as if it had happened but yesterday, that the delegation, which came in December last to New York, to tender me a cordial welcome from and to invite me to Newark, called me a brother, a brother in the just and righteous appreciation of human rights and human destiny; brother in all the sacred and hallowed sentiments of the human heart.  These were your words, and yesterday the people of Newark proved to me that they are your sentiments; sentiments not like the sudden excitement of passion, which cools, but sentiments of brotherhood and friendship, lasting, faithful, and true.

You have greeted me by the dear name of brother.  When I came, you entitled me to the right to bid you farewell in a brother’s way.  And between brethren, a warm grasp of hand, a tender tear in the eye, and the word “remember,” tells more than all the skill of oratory could do.  And remember, oh remember, brethren! that the grasp of my hand is my whole people’s grasp, the tear which glistens in my eyes is their tear.  They are suffering as no other people—­for the world, the oppressed world.  They are the emblem of struggling liberty, claiming a brother’s love and a brother’s aid from America, who is, happily, the emblem of prosperous liberty!