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

EULOGY

PRONOUNCED AT THE FUNERAL OF

GEORGE PEABODY,

AT PEABODY, MASSACHUSETTS,

8 Febkuaky, 1870.

HON. ROBERT C. WINTHROP, LL.D.

PRESIDENT OF THE PEABODY EDUCATION FUND.

SECOND EDITION.

N

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EULOGY

PRONOUNCED AT THE FUNERAL OF

GEORGE PEABODY.

AT PEABODY, MASSACHUSETTS,

8 February, 1870.

BY

HON. ROBERT C. WINTHROP, LL.D.,

PRESIDENT OF THE PEABODY EDUCATION FUND.

SECOND EDITION.

BOSTON:

PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON.

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
community.

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
triumph.

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-

8

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

lO

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-
stone.

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

II

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
Country.

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."

12

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

13

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

H

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.

15

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

i6

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;

17

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"!

3

i8

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,

19

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

20

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

21

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

22

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

.23

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

24

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:

25

" 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-

4

26

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