[_Speech to the Ladies of New York_.]

The Rev. Dr. Tyng having spoken in the name of the Ladies of New York,
and concluded with the words: "And now, sir, the ladies whom I have the
honour to represent, knowing your history, and fully aware of its vast
importance, desire themselves to be the audience, and to hear the voice
of Kossuth, and the claims of Hungary." Kossuth replied as follows:--

I would I were able to answer that call. I would I were able suitably to
fill the place which your kindness has assigned to me. You were pleased
to say that Austria was blind to let me escape. Be assured that it was
not the merit of Austria. She would have been very glad to bury me
alive, but the Sultan of Turkey took courage, and notwithstanding all
the remonstrances of Austria, I am free.

Ladies, worn out as I am, still I am very glad that the ladies of New
York condescend to listen to my farewell. When in the midst of a busy
day, the watchful care of a guardian angel throws some flowers of joy in
the thorny way of man, he gathers them up with thanks: a cheerful thrill
quivers through his heart, like the melody of an Aeolian harp; but the
earnest duties of life soon claim his attention and his cares. The
melodious thrill dies away, and on he must go; on he goes, joyless,
cheerless, and cold, every fibre of his heart bent to the earnest duties
of the day. But when the hard work of the day is done, and the stress of
mind for a moment subsides, then the heart again claims its right, and
the tender fingers of our memory gather up again the violets of joy
which the guardian angel threw in our way, and we look at them with
delight; while we cherish them as the favourite gifts of life--we are as
glad as the child on Christmas eve. These are the happiest moments of
man's life. But when we are not noisy, not eloquent, we are silent
almost mute, like nature in a midsummer's night, reposing from the
burning heat of the day. Ladies, that is my condition now. It is a hard
day's work which I have had to do here. I am delivering my farewell
address; and every compassionate smile, every warm grasp of the hand,
every token of kindness which I have received (and I have received so
many), every flower of consolation which the ladies of New York have
thrown on my thorny way, rushes with double force to my memory. I feel
happy in this memory--there is a solemn tranquillity about my mind; but
in such a moment I would rather be silent than speak. Y