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Full text of "Eulogy pronounced at the funeral of George Peabody, at Peabody, Massachusetts, 8 February, 1870"

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8 Febkuaky, 1870. 






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8 February, 1870. 








T^T^HILE I have been unwilling, my friends, 
wholly to decline the request of your Com- 
mittee of Arrangements, or to seem wanting to any 
service which might, perchance, have gratified him, 
whom, in common with 3'ou all, T have so honored 
and loved, — I have still felt deeply, and I cannot 
help feeling, at this moment, more deepl}'^ than ever 
before, that any words of mine or of others might 
well have been spared on this occasion. 

The solemn tones of the organ, the plaintive 
notes of the funeral chant, the consoling lessons of 
the Sacred Scriptures, the fervent utterances of 
prayer and praise, — these would have seemed to 
me the only appropriate — I had almost said, the 
only endurable — interruptions of the silent sorrow 
which befits a scene like this. 

Even were it possible for me to add any thing, 
worth adding, to the tributes on both sides of the 

ocean, which already have well-nigh exhausted the 
language of eulogy, — the formal phrases of a de- 
tailed memoir, or of a protracted and studied pan- 
egyric, would congeal upon my lips, and fall 
frozen upon the ears and hearts of all whom I ad- 
dress, in presence of the lifeless form of one, who 
has so long been the support, the ornament, the 
dear delight, of this village of his nativity. 

We cannot, indeed, any of us, gather around 
these cherished remains, and prepare to commit 
them, tenderly and affectionately, to their mother 
earth, without a keen sense of personal affliction 
and bereavement. He was too devoted and loving 
a brother; he was too kind and thoughtful a kins- 
man; he was too genial and steadfast a friend, not 
to be missed and mourned by those around me, as 
few others have ever been missed and mourned here 
before. I am not insensible to my own full share 
of the private and public grief which pervades this 

And yet, my friends, it is, by no means, sorrow 
alone, which may well be indulged by us all at such 
an hour as this. Other emotions, I hazard nothing 
in saying, far other emotions besides those of grief, 
are, even now, rising and swelling in all our hearts, 
— emotions of pride, emotions of joy, emotions of 

Am I not right? How could it be other- 
wise?. What a career has that been, of which 
the final scene is now, at length, before us! Who 
can contemplate its rise and progress, from the 
lowly cradle in this South Parish of old Danvers — 
henceforth to be known of all men by his name — ■ 
to the temporary repose in Westminster Abbey, 
followed by that august procession across the At- 
lantic, whose wake upon the waters will glow and 
sparkle to the end of time, growing more and 
more luminous with the lapse of years, — who, I 
say, can contemplate that career, from its hum- 
ble commencement to its magnificent completion, 
without an irrepressible thrill of admiration, and 
almost of rapture? 

Who, certainly, can contemplate the immediate 
close of this extraordinary life without rejoicing, 
not only that it was so painless, so peaceful, so 
happy in itself; not only that it was so provi- 
dentially postponed until he had been enabled, 
once more, to revisit his native land, to complete 
his great American benefactions, to hold personal 
intercourse with those friends at the South for 
whose welfare the largest and most cherished of 
those benefactions was designed, and tc take solemn 
leave of those to whom he was bound by so many 
ties of affection or of blood, — but that it occurred 

at a time, and under circumstances, so peculiarly 
fortunate for attracting the largest attention, and for 
giving the widest impression and influence, to his 
great and inspiring example ? 

For this, precisely this, as I believe, would 
have been the most gratifying consideration to our 
lamented friend himself, could he have distinctly 
foreseen all that has happened, since he left you a 
few months since. Could it have been foretold 
him, as he embarked, with feeble strength and 
faltering steps, on board his favorite Scotia, at 
New York, on the 29th of September last, not 
merely that he was leaving kinsfolk and friends 
and native land for the last time, but that hardly 
four weeks would have elapsed, after his arrival 
at Liverpool, before he should be the subject of 
funeral honors, by command of the Qiieen of Eng- 
land, and should lie down, for a time, beneath the 
consecrated arches of that far-famed Minster, among 
the kings and counsellors of the earth; — could it 
have been foretold him, that his acts would be the 
theme of eloquent tributes from" high prelates of the 
Church, and from the highest Minister of the Crown, 
and that Great Britain and the United States — 
not alwa3's, nor often, alas! in perfect accord — 
should vie with each other in furnishing their proud- 
est national ships to escort his remains over the 

ocean, exhibiting such a funeral fleet as the world, 
in all its history, had never witnessed before; — 
could all this have been whispered in his ear, as it 
was catching those last farewells of relatives and 
friends, — he must, indeed, have been more than 
mortal, not to have experienced some unwonted 
emotions of personal gratification and pride. 

But I do believe, from all I have ever seen or 
known of him, — and few others, at home or 
abroad, have of late enjoyed more of his con- 
fidence, — that far, far above any feelings of this 
sort, his great heart would have throbbed, as it 
never throbbed before, with gratitude to God and 
man, that the example which he had given to 
the world, — by employing the wealth which he 
had accumulated, during a long life of industry 
and integrity, in relieving the wants of his fellow- 
men wherever they were most apparent to him; 
in providing lodgings for the poor of London; in 
providing education for the children of our own 
desolated South; in building a Memorial Church 
for the parish in which his mother had worshipped; 
in founding or endowing institutes and libraries 
and academies of science in the town in which 
he was born, in the city in which he had longest 
resided, and in so many other places with which, 
for a longer or a shorter time, he had been con- 


nected, — that this grand and glorious example, 
of munificence and beneficence, would thus be so 
signally held up to the contemplation of mankind, 
in a way not only to commend it to their remem- 
brance and regard, but to command for it their re- 
spect and imitation. This, I feel assured, he would 
have felt to be the accomplishment of the warmest 
wish of his heart; the consummation of the most 
cherished object of his life. 

Our lamented friend was not, indeed, without 
ambition. He not only liked to do grand things, 
but he liked to do them in a grand way. We all 
remember those sumptuous and princely banquets, 
with which he sometimes diversified the habitual 
simplicity and frugality of his daily life. He was 
not without a decided taste for occasional dis- 
play, — call it even ostentation, if you will. We 
certainly may not ascribe to him a pre-eminent 
measure of that sort of charity which shuns public- 
ity, which shrinks from observation, and which, 
according to one of our Saviour's well-remembered 
injunctions, "doeth its alms in secret." He may, 
or he may not, have exercised as much of this kind 
of beneficence, as any of those in similar condition 
around him. I fully believe that he did. We all 
understand, however, that 

" Of that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love," 

there can be no record except on high, — or in the 
grateful hearts of those who have been aided and 
relieved. That record shall be revealed hereafter. 
The world can know little or nothing of it now. 

But any one must perceive, at a glance, that the 
sort of charit}' which our lamented friend illustrated 
and exercised, was wholly incompatible with con- 
cealment or reserve. The great Trusts which he 
established, the great Institutions which he founded, 
the capacious and costly Edifices which he erected, 
were things that could not be hid, which could not 
be done in a corner. They were, in their own in- 
trinsic and essential nature, patent to the world's 
eye. He could not have performed these noble 
acts in his lifetime, as it was his peculiar choice to 
do, and as it will be his peculiar distinction and 
glory to have done, without suffering himself " to be 
seen of men;" without being known, and recognized, 
and celebrated as their author. He must have post- 
poned them all, as others have done, for posthumous 
execution; he must have refrained from parting 
with his millions until death should have wrested 
them from a reluctant grasp, — had he shrunk from 
the notoriety and celebrity which inevitably attend 
upon such a career. 

He did not fail to remember, however, — for he 
was no stranger to the Bible, — that there were at 


least two modes of doing good commended in Holy 
Writ. He did not forget, that the same glorious 
gospel, nay, that the same incomparable Sermon on 
the Mount, which said, " Let not thy left hand know 
what thy right hand doeth," said, also, "Let your 
light so shine before men, that they may see your 
good works, and glorify your Father which is in 
heaven." This, this might almost be regarded as 
the chosen motto of his later life, and might, not 
inappropriately, be inscribed as such on his tomb- 

Certainly, my friends, his light has shone before 
men. Certainly, they have seen his good works. 
And who shall doubt that they have glorified his 
Father which is in heaven ? Yes, glory to God, 
glory to God in the highest, has, I am persuaded, 
swollen up from the hearts of millions, in both hemi- 
spheres, with a new fervor, as they have followed 
him in his grand circumnavigation of benevolence, 
and as they have witnessed, one after another, his 
multifold and magnificent endowments. And his 
own heart, I repeat, would have throbbed and 
thrilled, as it never thrilled or throbbed before, with 
gratitude to' God and man, could he have foreseen 
that the matchless example of munificence, which 
it had been the cherished aim of his later years to 
exhibit, w^ould be rendered, as it has now been 


rendered, so signal, so Inspiring, so enduring, so 
immortal, by the homage which has been paid to 
his memory by the princes and potentates, as well 
as by the poor, of the Old World, and by the gov- 
ernment and the whole people of his own beloved 

I have spoken of the exhibition of this example, 
as having been the cherished aim of his later years; 
but I am not without authority for saying, that it 
was among the fondest wishes of his whole mature 
life. I cannot forget, that, in one of those confiden- 
tial consultations with which he honored me some 
years since, after unfolding his plans, and telling 
me substantially all that he designed to do, — for, 
almost every thing he did was of his own original 
designing, — and when I was filled with admiration 
and amazement at the magnitude and sublimity of 
his purposes, he said to me, with that guileless sim- 
plicity which characterized so much of his social 
intercourse and conversation, "Why, Mr. Winthrop, 
this is no new idea to me. From the earliest years 
of my manhood, I have contemplated some such 
disposition of my property ; and I have prayed my 
Heavenly Father, day by day, that I might be en- 
abled, before I died, to show my gratitude for the 
blessings which He has bestowed upon me, by do- 
ing some great good to my fellow-men." 


Well has the living Laureate of England sung, 

in one of his latest published poems, — 

" More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of." 

That prayer has been heard and answered. That 
noble aspiration has been more than fulfilled. The 
judgment of the future will confirm the opinion of 
the hourj and History, instead of contenting her- 
self with merely enrolling his name, in chronologi- 
cal or alphabetical order, as one among the many 
benefactors of mankind, will assign him — unless I 
greatly mistake her verdict — a place by himself, far 
above all competition or comparison, first without 
a second, as having done the greatest good for the 
greatest number of his fellow-men, — so far, at least, 
as pecuniary means could accomplish such a result, 
— of which there has thus far been any authentic 
record in merely human annals. 

It would afford a most inadequate measure of his 
munificence, were I to sum up the dollars or the 
pounds he has distributed; or the number of persons 
whom his perennial provisions, for dwellings or for 
schools, will have included, in years to come, on one 
side of the Atlantic or the other. Tried even by 
this narrow test, his beneficence has neither prece- 
dent nor parallel. But it is, as having attracted 
and compelled the attention of mankind to the 


beauty, the nobleness, the true glory of living and 
doing for others ; it is, as having raised the stand- 
ard of munificence to a degree which has almost 
made it a new thing in the world ; it is, as having 
exhibited a wisdom and a discrimination in select- 
ing the objects, and in arranging the machinery, of 
his bounty, which almost entitle him to. the credit 
of an inventor ; it is, as having, in the words of the 
brilliant Gladstone, " taught us how a man may be 
the master of his fortune, and not its slave ; " it is, 
as having discarded all considerations of caste, 
creed, condition, nationality, in his world-wide 
philanthropy, regarding nothing human as alien to 
him ; it is, as having deliberately stripped himself 
in his lifetime of the property he had so laboriously 
acquired; delighting as much in devising modes of 
bestowing his wealth, as he had ever done in con- 
triving plans for its increase and accumulation; 
literally throwing out his bags like some adventur- 
ous aeronaut, who would mount higher and higher 
to the skies; and really exulting as he calculated, 
from time to time, how little of all his laborious 
earnings he had at last left for himself; it is, as 
having furnished this new and living and magnetic 
example, which can never be lost to history, never 
be lost to the interests of humanity, never fail to 
attract, inspire, and stimulate the lovers of their 


fellow-men, as long as human wants and human 
wealth shall coexist upon the earth, — it is in this 
way, that our lamented friend has attained a pre- 
eminence among the benefactors of his ^age and 
race, like that of Washington among patriots, or 
that of Shakespeare or Milton among poets. 

I do not altogether forget those Maecenases of old, 
whom philosophers and poets have so delighted to 
extol. I do not forget the passing tribute of the 
great Roman orator to one of the publicans of his 
own period, as having displayed an incredible be- 
nignity in amassing a vast fortune, not "as the prey 
of avarice, but as the instrument of doing good." I 
do not forget the founders of the Royal Exchange 
in London, and of the noble hospital in Edinburgh; 
the princely merchant of Queen Elizabeth's day, or 
the "Jingling Geordie " of England's first King 
James. I do not forget how strikingly Edmund 
Burke foreshadowed our lamented friend, when he 
said of one of his own contemporaries, " His for- 
tune is among the largest, — a fortune which, wholly 
unencumbered, as it is, without one single charge 
from luxury, vanity, or excess, sinks under the be- 
nevolence of its dispenser. This private benevo- 
lence, expanding itself into patriotism, renders his 
whole being the estate of the public, in which he 
has not reserved a feculium for himself, of profit. 


diversion, or relaxation." I do not forget the Baron 
de Monthyon, of France, whose noble benefactions 
are annually distributed by the Imperial Academy, 
and whose portrait has been combined with that 
of our own Franklin on a medal commemorative of 
their kindred beneficence. I recall, too, the refrain 
of an ode to a late munificent English duke, on the 
erection of his statue at Belvoir Castle, which might 
well have been sung again, when Story's statue of 
our friend was so gracefully unveiled by the Prince 
of Wales, — 

" Oh, my brethren, what a glory 
To the world is one good man! " 

Nor do I fail to remember the long roll of benefac- 
tors, dead and living, of whom our own age, and 
vour own country, and our mother country, — New 
England and Old England, — may so justly boast. 
But no one imagines that either Caius Curius, or 
Sir Thomas Gresham, or George Heriot, or Sir 
George Savile, or any Duke of Rutland, or Mon- 
thyon, or Franklin, or any of the later and larger 
benefactors of our own time or land, can ever vie in 
historic celebrity, as a practical philanthropist, with 
him whom we bury here to-da3\ 

Think me not unmindful, my friends, that, for the 
manifestation of a true spirit of benevolence, two 
mites will suffice as well as untold millions, — a 


cup ot cold water, as well as a treasure-house of 
silver and gold. Think me not unmindful, either, 
of the grand and glorious results, for the welfare of 
mankind, which have been accomplished by purely 
moral or religious influences; by personal toil and 
trust, by the force of Christian character and exam- 
ple, by the exercise of some great gifts of intellect 
or eloquence, by simple self-devotion and self-sacri- 
fice, without any employment whatever of pecuniary 
means ; — by missionaries in the cause of Christ, by 
reformers of prisons and organizers of hospitals, by 
Sisters of Charity, by visitors of the poor, by cham- 
pions of the oppressed ; by such women as Eliza- 
beth Fry and Florence Nightingale, and such men 
as John Howard and William Wilberforce; or, to 
go further back in history, by men like our own, 
John Eliot, the early apostle to the Indians, or like 
that sainted Vincent de Paul, whose memory has 
been so justly honored in France for more than two 
centuries. But philanthropy of this sort, I need not 
say, stands on a somewhat diflferent plane, and can- 
not fairly enter into this comparison. 

It is enough to say of our lamented friend, as 
we have seen and known him of late, that in him 
were united — as rarely, if ever, before — the largest 
desire and the largest ability to do good 5 that his 
will was, at least, commensurate with his wealth; 


and that nothing but the limited extent of even the 
most considerable earthly estate prevented his en- 
joying the very antepast of celestial bliss : — 

" For when the power of imparting good 
Is equal to the will, the human soul 
Requires no other heaven." 

And now, my friends, w^hat wonder is it, that all 
that was mortal of such a man has come back to us, 
to-day, with such a convoy, and with such accom- 
panying honors, as- well might have befitted some 
mighty conqueror, or some princely hero? Was he 
not, indeed, a conqueror ? Was he not, indeed, 
a hero ? Oh! it is not on the battle-field, or on 
the blood-stained ocean, alone, that conquests are 
achieved and victories won. There are battles to 
be fought, there is a life-long warfare to be waged, 
by each one of us, in our own breasts, and against 
our own selfish natures. And what conflict is 
harder than that which awaits the accumulator of 
great wealth ! Who can ever forget, or remember 
without a shudder, the emphatic testimony to the 
character of that conflict, which was borne by our 
blessed Saviour, — who knew what was in man better 
than any man knows it for himself, — when He 
said, " How hardly shall they that have riches enter 
into the kingdom of God; " and when he bade that 
rich young man, "Sell all that he had and distribute 
to the poor, and then come and follow him"! 



It would be doing grievous injustice to our la- 
mented friend, were we to deny or conceal that 
there were elements in his character which made 
his own warfare, in this respect, a stern one. He 
was no stranger to the love of accumulation. He 
was no stranger to the passion for gaining and 
saving and hoarding. There were in his nature 
the germs, and more than the germs, of economy 
and even of parsimony; and sometimes they would 
sprout, and spring up, in spite of himself. Nothing 
less strong than his own will, nothing less in- 
domitable than his own courage, could have 
enabled him, by the grace of God, to strive success- 
fully against that greedy, grudging, avaricious spirit, 
which so often besets the talent for acquisition. In 
a thousand little ways, you might perceive, to the 
last, how much within him he had contended against, 
how much within him he had overcome and van- 
quished. All the more glorious and signal was the 
victory! All the more deserved and appropriate 
are these trappings of triumph, with which his re- 
mains have been restored to us ! You rob him of his 
richest laurel, you refuse him his brightest crown, 
when you attempt to cover up or disguise any of 
those innate tendencies, any of those acquired habits, 
any of those besetting temptations, against which he 
struggled so bravely and so triumphantly. Recount, 


if you please, every penurious or mercenary act of 
his earlier or his later life, which friends have ever 
witnessed, — if they have ever witnessed any, — or 
which malice has ever whispered or hinted at, — 
and malice, we know, has not spared him in more 
ways than one, — and you have only added to his 
titles to be received and remembered as a hero and 
a conqueror. 

As such a conqueror, then, you have received him 
from that majestic turreted Iron-clad, which the 
gracious monarch of our motherland has deputed as 
her own messenger to bear him back to his home.. 
As such a conqueror, you have canopied his funeral 
car with the flag of his country; — aye, with the 
flags of both his countries, between whom I pray 
God that his memory may ever be a pledge of 
mutual forbearance and affectionate regard. As 
such a conqueror, you mark the day and the hour 
of his burial by minute-guns, and fire a farewell 
shot, it may be, as the clods of his native soil 
are heaped upon his breast. 

We do not forget, however, amidst all this mar- 
tial pomp, how eminently he was a man of peace; 
or how earnestly he desired, or how much he had 
done, to inculcate a spirit of peace, national and 
international. I may not attempt to enter here, 
to-day, into any consideration of the influence of 


his specific endowments, at home or abroad, Amer- 
ican or English; but I may say, in a single word, 
that I think history will be searched in A'^ain for 
the record of any merely human acts, recent or 
remote, which have been more in harmony with 
that angelic chorus, which, jiist as the fleet, with 
this sad freight, had entered on its funeral voyage 
across the Atlantic, the whole Christian World was 
uniting to ring back again to the skies from which 
it first was heard ; — any merely human acts, which 
while, as I have said, they have waked a fresh and 
more fervent echo of " Glory to God in the high- 
est," have done more to promote " Peace on earth 
and good-will towards men." 

Here, then, my friends, in this home of his in- 
fancy, where, seventy years ago, he attended the 
common village school, and served his first appren- 
ticeship as a humble shop-boy; — here, where, 
seventeen years ago, his first large public dona- 
tion was made, accompanied by that memorable 
sentiment, "Education: a debt due from present 
to future generations;" — here, where the monu- 
ments and memorials of his affection and his mu- 
nificence surround us on every side, and where he 
had chosen to deposit that unique enamelled por- 
trait of the Queen, that exquisite gold medal, the 
gift of his Country, that charming little autograph 


note from the Empress of France, that imperial 
photograph of the Pope, inscribed by his own hand, 
and whatever other tributes had been most precious 
to him in life; — here, where he has desired that his 
own remains should finally repose, near to the 
graves of his father and mother, enforcing that de- 
sire by those touching words, almost the last which 
he uttered, " Danvers, — Danvers, — don't forget," 
— here let us thank God for his transcendent ex- 
ample; and here let us resolve, that it shall neither 
fail to be treasured up in our hearts, and sacredly 
transmitted to our children and our children's chil- 
dren, nor be wholly without an influence upon our 
own immediate lives. Let it never be said that the 
tomb and the trophies are remembered and cher- 
ished, but the example forgotten or neglected. 

I may not longer detain you, my friends, from 
the sad ceremonies which remain to be performed 
by us; yet I cannot quite release you until I have 
alluded, in the simplest and briefest manner, to an 
incident of the last days, and almost the last hours, 
of this noble life, which has come to me from a 
source which cannot be questioned. While he was 
lying, seemingly unconscious, on his death-bed in 
London, at the house of his kind friend. Sir Curtis 
Lampson, and when all direct communication with 


him had been for a time suspended, it was men- 
tioned aloud in his presence, in a manner, and with 
a purpose, to test his consciousness, that a highly 
valued acquaintance had called to see him; but he 
took no notice of the remark. Not long after- 
wards, it was stated in a tone loud enough for him 
to hear, that the Queen herself had sent a special 
telegram of inquiry and sympathy; but even that 
failed to arouse him. Once more, at no long inter- 
val, it was remarked, that a faithful minister of the 
Gospel, with whom he had once made a voyage to 
America, was at the door; and his attention was 
instantly attracted. That ^ good man,' as he called 
him with his latest breath, was received by him, 
and prayed with him, more than once. " It is a 
great mystery," he feebly observed, "but I shall 
know all soon;" while his repeated Amens gave 
audible and abundant evidence that those prayers 
were not lost upon his ear or upon his heart. The 
friendships of earth could no longer soothe him. 
The highest honors of the world, — the kind atten- 
tions of a Sovereign whom he knew how to re- 
spect, admire, and love, — could no longer satisfy 
him. The ambassador of Christ was the only 
visitor for that hour. 

Thus, we may humbly hope, was at last ex- 
plained and fulfilled for him, that mysterious saying 


of one of the ancient prophets of Israel, which he 
had heard many years before, as the text of a sermon 
by one whom he knew and valued; which had long 
lingered in his memory; and which, by some force 
of association or reflection, had again and again 
been recalled to his mind, and more than once, in 
my own hearing, been made the subject of his re- 
mark: "And it shall come to pass in that day, 
that the light shall not be clear nor dark; but it 
shall be one day which shall be known to the Lord, 
not day, nor night: but it shall come to pass, that at 
evening time it shall be light." 

At evening time, it was, indeed, light for him. 
And who shall doubt, that when another morning 
shall break upon his brow, it shall be a morning 
without clouds, — all light, and love, and joy, — for 
" the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb 
shall be the light thereof"! 

And so I bid farewell to thee, brave, honest, 
noble-hearted friend! The village of thy birth 
weeps, to-day, for one who never caused her pain 
before. The ^ Flower of Essex ' is gathered at 
thy grave. Massachusetts mourns thee as a son 
who has given new lustre to her historic page; and 
Maine, not unmindful of her joint inheritance in 


the earlier glories of the parent State, has opened 
her noblest harbor, and draped her municipal halls 
with richest, saddest robes, to do honor to thy 
remains. New England, from mountain-top to 
farthest cape, is in sympathy with the scene, and 
feels the fitness that the hallowed memories of 
' Leyden ' and ^ Plymouth ' — the refuge and the 
rock of her Pilgrim Fathers — should be associ- 
ated with thy obsequies. This great and glorious 
Nation, in all its restored and vindicated union, 
partakes the pride of thy life and the sorrow of thy 
loss. In hundreds of schools of the desolated 
South, the children, even now, are chanting thy 
requiem and weaving chaplets around thy name. 
In hundreds of comfortable homes, provided by 
thy bounty, the poor of the grandest city of the 
world, even now, are breathing blessings on thy 
memory. The proudest shrine of Old England has 
unlocked its consecrated vaults for thy repose. 
The bravest ship of a navy ' whose march is o'er the 
mountain waves, whose home is on the deep,' has 
borne thee as a conqueror to thy chosen rest; and, 
as it passed from isle to isle, and from sea to sea, in 
a circumnavigation almost as wide as thy own 
charity, has given new significance to the memor- 
able saying of the great funeral orator of antiquity: 


" Of illustrious men, the whole earth is the sepul- 
chre; and not only does the inscription upon col- 
umns in their own land point it out, but in that also 
which is not their own, there dwells with every 
one an unwritten memorial of the heart." 

And now, around thee, are assembled, not only 
surviving schoolmates and old companions of thy 
youth, and neighbors and friends of thy maturer 
years, but votaries of Science, ornaments of Litera- 
ture, heads of Universities and Academies, fore- 
most men of Commerce and the Arts, ministers of 
the Gospel,'delegates from distant States and rulers 
of thy own State, all eager to unite in paying such 
homage to a career of grand but simple Benefi- 
cence, as neither rank nor fortune nor learning 
nor genius could ever have commanded. Chiefs 
of the Republic, representatives and more than 
representatives of Royalty, are not absent from thy 
bier. Nothing is wanting to give emphasis to 
thy example. Nothing is wanting to fill up the 
measure of thy fame. 

But what earthly honor — what accumulation of 
earthly honors — shall compare for a moment with 
the supreme hope and trust which we all humbly 
and devoutly cherish at this hour, that when the 
struggles and the victories, the pangs and the pa- 



geants, of time shall all be ended, and the great 
awards of eternity shall be made up, thou mayest 
be found among those who are " more than con- 
querors, through Him who loved us " I 

And so we bid thee farewell, brave, honest, 
noble-hearted Friend of Mankind ! 

^-C^ 51^3*1