PERSONAL SKETCHES AND TRIBUTES BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER CONTENTS: PERSONAL SKETCHES AND TRIBUTES. THE FUNERAL OF TORREY EDWARD EVERETT LEWIS TAPPAN BAYARD TAYLOR WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD LYDIA MARIA CHILD OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES LONGFELLOW OLD NEWBURY SCHOOLDAY REMEMBRANCES EDWIN PERCY WHIPPLE PERSONAL SKETCHES AND TRIBUTES THE FUNERAL OF TORREY. Charles T. Torrey, an able young Congregational clergyman, died May 9, 1846, in the state's prison of Maryland, for the offence of aiding slaves to escape from bondage. His funeral in Boston, attended by thousands, was a most impressive occasion. The following is an extract from an article written for the _Essex Transcript_:-- Some seven years ago, we saw Charles T. Torrey for the first time. Hiswife was leaning on his arm, --young, loving, and beautiful; the heartthat saw them blessed them. Since that time, we have known him as a mostenergetic and zealous advocate of the anti-slavery cause. He had finetalents, improved by learning and observation, a clear, intensely activeintellect, and a heart full of sympathy and genial humanity. It was withstrange and bitter feelings that we bent over his coffin and looked uponhis still face. The pity which we had felt for him in his longsufferings gave place to indignation against his murderers. Hatefulbeyond the power of expression seemed the tyranny which had murdered himwith the slow torture of the dungeon. May God forgive us, if for themoment we felt like grasping His dread prerogative of vengeance. As wepassed out of the hall, a friend grasped our hand hard, his eye flashingthrough its tears, with a stern reflection of our own emotions, while hewhispered through his pressed lips: "It is enough to turn every anti-slavery heart into steel. " Our blood boiled; we longed to see the wickedapologists of slavery--the blasphemous defenders of it in Church andState--led up to the coffin of our murdered brother, and there made tofeel that their hands had aided in riveting the chain upon those stilllimbs, and in shutting out from those cold lips the free breath ofheaven. A long procession followed his remains to their resting-place at MountAuburn. A monument to his memory will be raised in that cemetery, in themidst of the green beauty of the scenery which he loved in life, and sideby side with the honored dead of Massachusetts. Thither let the friendsof humanity go to gather fresh strength from the memory of the martyr. There let the slaveholder stand, and as he reads the record of theenduring marble commune with his own heart, and feel that sorrow whichworketh repentance. The young, the beautiful, the brave!--he is safe now from the malice ofhis enemies. Nothing can harm him more. His work for the poor andhelpless was well and nobly done. In the wild woods of Canada, aroundmany a happy fireside and holy family altar, his name is on the lips ofGod's poor. He put his soul in their souls' stead; he gave his life forthose who had no claim on his love save that of human brotherhood. Howpoor, how pitiful and paltry, seem our labors! How small and mean ourtrials and sacrifices! May the spirit of the dead be with us, and infuseinto our hearts something of his own deep sympathy, his hatred ofinjustice, his strong faith and heroic endurance. May that spirit begladdened in its present sphere by the increased zeal and faithfulness ofthe friends he has left behind. EDWARD EVERETT. A letter to Robert C. Waterston. Amesbury, 27th 1st Month, 1865. I acknowledge through thee the invitation of the standing committee ofthe Massachusetts Historical Society to be present at a special meetingof the Society for the purpose of paying a tribute to the memory of ourlate illustrious associate, Edward Everett. It is a matter of deep regret to me that the state of my health will notpermit me to be with you on an occasion of so much interest. It is most fitting that the members of the Historical Society ofMassachusetts should add their tribute to those which have been alreadyoffered by all sects, parties, and associations to the name and fame oftheir late associate. He was himself a maker of history, and part andparcel of all the noble charities and humanizing influences of his Stateand time. When the grave closed over him who added new lustre to the old andhonored name of Quincy, all eyes instinctively turned to Edward Everettas the last of that venerated class of patriotic civilians who, outlivingall dissent and jealousy and party prejudice, held their reputation bythe secure tenure of the universal appreciation of its worth as a commontreasure of the republic. It is not for me to pronounce his eulogy. Others, better qualified by their intimate acquaintance with him, havedone and will do justice to his learning, eloquence, varied culture, andsocial virtues. My secluded country life has afforded me fewopportunities of personal intercourse with him, while my pronouncedradicalism on the great question which has divided popular feelingrendered our political paths widely divergent. Both of us early saw thedanger which threatened the country. In the language of the prophet, we"saw the sword coining upon the land, " but while he believed in thepossibility of averting it by concession and compromise, I, on thecontrary, as firmly believed that such a course could only strengthen andconfirm what I regarded as a gigantic conspiracy against the rights andliberties, the union and the life, of the nation. Recent events have certainly not tended to change this belief on my part;but in looking over the past, while I see little or nothing to retract inthe matter of opinion, I am saddened by the reflection that through thevery intensity of my convictions I may have done injustice to the motivesof those with whom I differed. As respects Edward Everett, it seems tome that only within the last four years I have truly known him. In that brief period, crowded as it is with a whole life-work ofconsecration to the union, freedom, and glory of his country, he not onlycommanded respect and reverence, but concentrated upon himself in a mostremarkable degree the love of all loyal and generous hearts. We haveseen, in these years of trial, very great sacrifices offered upon thealtar of patriotism, --wealth, ease, home, love, life itself. But EdwardEverett did more than this: he laid on that altar not only his time, talents, and culture, but his pride of opinion, his long-cherished viewsof policy, his personal and political predilections and prejudices, hisconstitutional fastidiousness of conservatism, and the carefullyelaborated symmetry of his public reputation. With a rare and noblemagnanimity, he met, without hesitation, the demand of the greatoccasion. Breaking away from all the besetments of custom andassociation, he forgot the things that are behind, and, with an eyesingle to present duty, pressed forward towards the mark of the highcalling of Divine Providence in the events of our time. All honor tohim! If we mourn that he is now beyond the reach of our poor humanpraise, let us reverently trust that he has received that higher plaudit:"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!" When I last met him, as my colleague in the Electoral College ofMassachusetts, his look of health and vigor seemed to promise us manyyears of his wisdom and usefulness. On greeting him I felt impelled toexpress my admiration and grateful appreciation of his patriotic labors;and I shall never forget how readily and gracefully he turned attentionfrom himself to the great cause in which we had a common interest, andexpressed his thankfulness that he had still a country to serve. To keep green the memory of such a man is at once a privilege and a duty. That stainless life of seventy years is a priceless legacy. His handswere pure. The shadow of suspicion never fell on him. If he erred inhis opinions (and that he did so he had the Christian grace and courageto own), no selfish interest weighed in the scale of his judgment againsttruth. As our thoughts follow him to his last resting-place, we are sadlyreminded of his own touching lines, written many years ago at Florence. The name he has left behind is none the less "pure" that instead of being"humble, " as he then anticipated, it is on the lips of grateful millions, and written ineffaceable on the record of his country's trial andtriumph:-- "Yet not for me when I shall fall asleep Shall Santa Croce's lamps their vigils keep. Beyond the main in Auburn's quiet shade, With those I loved and love my couch be made; Spring's pendant branches o'er the hillock wave, And morning's dewdrops glisten on my grave, While Heaven's great arch shall rise above my bed, When Santa Croce's crumbles on her dead, -- Unknown to erring or to suffering fame, So may I leave a pure though humble name. " Congratulating the Society on the prospect of the speedy consummation ofthe great objects of our associate's labors, --the peace and permanentunion of our country, -- I am very truly thy friend. LEWIS TAPPAN. [1873. ] One after another, those foremost in the antislavery conflict of the lasthalf century are rapidly passing away. The grave has just closed overall that was mortal of Salmon P. Chase, the kingliest of men, a statesmansecond to no other in our history, too great and pure for the Presidency, yet leaving behind him a record which any incumbent of that station mightenvy, --and now the telegraph brings us the tidings of the death of LewisTappan, of Brooklyn, so long and so honorably identified with the anti-slavery cause, and with every philanthropic and Christian enterprise. Hewas a native of Massachusetts, born at Northampton in 1788, of Puritanlineage, --one of a family remarkable for integrity, decision ofcharacter, and intellectual ability. At the very outset, in company withhis brother Arthur, he devoted his time, talents, wealth, and socialposition to the righteous but unpopular cause of Emancipation, andbecame, in consequence, a mark for the persecution which followed suchdevotion. His business was crippled, his name cast out as evil, hisdwelling sacked, and his furniture dragged into the street and burned. Yet he never, in the darkest hour, faltered or hesitated for a moment. He knew he was right, and that the end would justify him; one of thecheerfullest of men, he was strong where others were weak, hopeful whereothers despaired. He was wise in counsel, and prompt in action; likeTennyson's Sir Galahad, "His strength was as the strength of ten, Because his heart was pure. " I met him for the first time forty years ago, at the convention whichformed the American Anti-Slavery Society, where I chanced to sit by himas one of the secretaries. Myself young and inexperienced, I rememberhow profoundly I was impressed by his cool self-possession, clearness ofperception, and wonderful executive ability. Had he devoted himself toparty politics with half the zeal which he manifested in behalf of thosewho had no votes to give and no honors to bestow, he could have reachedthe highest offices in the land. He chose his course, knowing all thathe renounced, and he chose it wisely. He never, at least, regretted it. And now, at the ripe age of eighty-five years, the brave old man haspassed onward to the higher life, having outlived here all hatred, abuse, and misrepresentation, having seen the great work of Emancipationcompleted, and white men and black men equal before the law. I saw himfor the last time three years ago, when he was preparing his valuablebiography of his beloved brother Arthur. Age had begun to tell upon hisconstitution, but his intellectual force was not abated. The old, pleasant laugh and playful humor remained. He looked forward to theclose of life hopefully, even cheerfully, as he called to mind the dearfriends who had passed on before him, to await his coming. Of the sixty-three signers of the Anti-Slavery Declaration at thePhiladelphia Convention in 1833, probably not more than eight or ten arenow living. "As clouds that rake the mountain summits, As waves that know no guiding hand, So swift has brother followed brother From sunshine to the sunless land. " Yet it is a noteworthy fact that the oldest member of that convention, David Thurston, D. D. , of Maine, lived to see the slaves emancipated, andto mingle his voice of thanksgiving with the bells that rang in the dayof universal freedom. BAYARD TAYLOR Read at the memorial meeting in Tremont Temple, Boston, January 10, 1879. I am not able to attend the memorial meeting in Tremont Temple on the10th instant, but my heart responds to any testimonial appreciative ofthe intellectual achievements and the noble and manly life of BayardTaylor. More than thirty years have intervened between my first meetinghim in the fresh bloom of his youth and hope and honorable ambition, andmy last parting with him under the elms of Boston Common, after our visitto Richard H. Dana, on the occasion of the ninetieth anniversary of thathonored father of American poetry, still living to lament the death ofhis younger disciple and friend. How much he has accomplished in theseyears! The most industrious of men, slowly, patiently, under manydisadvantages, he built up his splendid reputation. Traveller, editor, novelist, translator, diplomatist, and through all and above all poet, what he was he owed wholly to himself. His native honesty was satisfiedwith no half tasks. He finished as he went, and always said and did hisbest. It is perhaps too early to assign him his place in American literature. His picturesque books of travel, his Oriental lyrics, his Pennsylvanianidyls, his Centennial ode, the pastoral beauty and Christian sweetness ofLars, and the high argument and rhythmic marvel of Deukalion are suretiesof the permanence of his reputation. But at this moment my thoughtsdwell rather upon the man than the author. The calamity of his death, felt in both hemispheres, is to me and to all who intimately knew andloved him a heavy personal loss. Under the shadow of this bereavement, in the inner circle of mourning, we sorrow most of all that we shall seehis face no more, and long for "the touch of a vanished hand, and thesound of a voice that is still. " WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING Read at the dedication of the Channing Memorial Church at Newport, R. I. DANVERS, MASS. , 3d Mo. , 13, 1880. I scarcely need say that I yield to no one in love and reverence for thegreat and good man whose memory, outliving all prejudices of creed, sect, and party, is the common legacy of Christendom. As the years go on, thevalue of that legacy will be more and more felt; not so much, perhaps, indoctrine as in spirit, in those utterances of a devout soul which areabove and beyond the affirmation or negation of dogma. His ethical severity and Christian tenderness; his hatred of wrong andoppression, with love and pity for the wrong-doer; his noble pleas forself-culture, temperance, peace, and purity; and above all, his preceptand example of unquestioning obedience to duty and the voice of God inhis soul, can never become obsolete. It is very fitting that his memoryshould be especially cherished with that of Hopkins and Berkeley in thebeautiful island to which the common residence of those worthies has lentadditional charms and interest. DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD. A letter written to W. H. B. Currier, of Amesbury, Mass. DANVERS, MASS. , 9th Mo. , 24, 1881. I regret that it is not in my power to join the citizens of Amesbury andSalisbury in the memorial services on the occasion of the death of ourlamented President. But in heart and sympathy I am with you. I sharethe great sorrow which overshadows the land; I fully appreciate theirretrievable loss. But it seems to me that the occasion is one forthankfulness as well as grief. Through all the stages of the solemn tragedy which has just closed withthe death of our noblest and best, I have felt that the Divine Providencewas overruling the mighty affliction, --that the patient sufferer atWashington was drawing with cords of sympathy all sections and partiesnearer to each other. And now, when South and North, Democrat andRepublican, Radical and Conservative, lift their voices in one unbrokenaccord of lamentation; when I see how, in spite of the greed of gain, thelust of office, the strifes and narrowness of party politics, the greatheart of the nation proves sound and loyal, I feel a new hope for therepublic, I have a firmer faith in its stability. It is said that no manliveth and no man dieth to himself; and the pure and noble life ofGarfield, and his slow, long martyrdom, so bravely borne in view of all, are, I believe, bearing for us as a people "the peaceable fruits ofrighteousness. " We are stronger, wiser, better, for them. With him it is well. His mission fulfilled, he goes to his grave by theLakeside honored and lamented as man never was before. The whole worldmourns him. There is no speech nor language where the voice of hispraise is not heard. About his grave gather, with heads uncovered, thevast brotherhood of man. And with us it is well, also. We are nearer a united people than everbefore. We are at peace with all; our future is full of promise; ourindustrial and financial condition is hopeful. God grant that, while ourmaterial interests prosper, the moral and spiritual influence of theoccasion may be permanently felt; that the solemn sacrament of Sorrow, whereof we have been made partakers, may be blest to the promotion of therighteousness which exalteth a nation. LYDIA MARIA CHILD. In 1882 a collection of the Letters of Lydia Maria Child was published, for which I wrote the following sketch, as an introduction:-- In presenting to the public this memorial volume, its compilers deemedthat a brief biographical introduction was necessary; and as a labor oflove I have not been able to refuse their request to prepare it. Lydia Maria Francis was born in Medford, Massachusetts, February 11, 1802. Her father, Convers Francis, was a worthy and substantial citizenof that town. Her brother, Convers Francis, afterwards theologicalprofessor in Harvard College, was some years older than herself, andassisted her in her early home studies, though, with the perversity of anelder brother, he sometimes mystified her in answering her questions. Once, when she wished to know what was meant by Milton's "raven down ofdarkness, " which was made to smile when smoothed, he explained that itwas only the fur of a black cat, which sparkled when stroked! Later inlife this brother wrote of her, "She has been a dear, good sister to mewould that I had been half as good a brother to her. " Her earliestteacher was an aged spinster, known in the village as "Marm Betty, "painfully shy, and with many oddities of person and manner, the never-forgotten calamity of whose life was that Governor Brooks once saw herdrinking out of the nose of her tea-kettle. Her school was in herbedroom, always untidy, and she was a constant chewer of tobacco but thechildren were fond of her, and Maria and her father always carried her agood Sunday dinner. Thomas W. Higginson, in _Eminent Women of the Age_, mentions in this connection that, according to an established custom, onthe night before Thanksgiving "all the humble friends of the Francishousehold--Marm Betty, the washerwoman, wood-sawyer, and journeymen, sometwenty or thirty in all--were summoned to a preliminary entertainment. They there partook of an immense chicken pie, pumpkin pie made in milk-pans, and heaps of doughnuts. They feasted in the large, old-fashionedkitchen, and went away loaded with crackers and bread and pies, notforgetting 'turnovers' for the children. Such plain application of thedoctrine that it is more blessed to give than receive may have done moreto mould the character of Lydia Maria Child of maturer years than all thefaithful labors of good Dr. Osgood, to whom she and her brother used torepeat the Assembly's catechism once a month. " Her education was limited to the public schools, with the exception ofone year at a private seminary in her native town. From a note by herbrother, Dr. Francis, we learn that when twelve years of age she went toNorridgewock, Maine, where her married sister resided. At Dr. Brown's, in Skowhegan, she first read _Waverley_. She was greatly excited, andexclaimed, as she laid down the book, "Why cannot I write a novel?"She remained in Norridgewock and vicinity for several years, and on herreturn to Massachusetts took up her abode with her brother at Watertown. He encouraged her literary tastes, and it was in his study that shecommenced her first story, _Hobomok_, which she published in the twenty-first year of her age. The success it met with induced her to give tothe public, soon after, _The Rebels: a Tale of the Revolution_, which wasat once received into popular favor, and ran rapidly through severaleditions. Then followed in close succession _The Mother's Book_, runningthrough eight American editions, twelve English, and one German, _TheGirl's Book_, the _History of Women_, and the _Frugal Housewife_, ofwhich thirty-five editions were published. Her _Juvenile Miscellany_ wascommenced in 1826. It is not too much to say that half a century ago she was the mostpopular literary woman in the United States. She had publishedhistorical novels of unquestioned power of description andcharacterization, and was widely and favorably known as the editor of the_Juvenile Miscellany_, which was probably the first periodical in theEnglish tongue devoted exclusively to children, and to which she was byfar the largest contributor. Some of the tales and poems from her penwere extensively copied and greatly admired. It was at this period thatthe _North American Review_, the highest literary authority of thecountry, said of her, "We are not sure that any woman of our countrycould outrank Mrs. Child. This lady has been long before the public asan author with much success. And she well deserves it, for in all herworks nothing can be found which does not commend itself, by its tone ofhealthy morality and good sense. Few female writers, if any, have donemore or better things for our literature in the lighter or graverdepartments. " Comparatively young, she had placed herself in the front rank of Americanauthorship. Her books and her magazine had a large circulation, and wereaffording her a comfortable income, at a time when the rewards ofauthorship were uncertain and at the best scanty. In 1828 she married David Lee Child, Esq. , a young and able lawyer, andtook up her residence in Boston. In 1831-32 both became deeplyinterested in the subject of slavery, through the writings and personalinfluence of William Lloyd Garrison. Her husband, a member of theMassachusetts legislature and editor of the _Massachusetts Journal_, had, at an earlier date, denounced the project of the dismemberment of Mexicofor the purpose of strengthening and extending American slavery. He wasone of the earliest members of the New England Anti-Slavery Society, andhis outspoken hostility to the peculiar institution greatly andunfavorably affected his interests as a lawyer. In 1832 he addressed aseries of able letters on slavery and the slave-trade to Edward S. Abdy, a prominent English philanthropist. In 1836 he published in Philadelphiaten strongly written articles on the same subject. He visited Englandand France in 1837, and while in Paris addressed an elaborate memoir tothe Societe pour l'Abolition d'Esclavage, and a paper on the same subjectto the editor of the _Eclectic Review_, in London. To his facts andarguments John Quincy Adams was much indebted in the speeches which hedelivered in Congress on the Texas question. In 1833 the American Anti-Slavery Society was formed by a convention inPhiladelphia. Its numbers were small, and it was everywhere spokenagainst. It was at this time that Lydia Maria Child startled the countryby the publication of her noble _Appeal in Behalf of that Class ofAmericans called Africans_. It is quite impossible for any one of thepresent generation to imagine the popular surprise and indignation whichthe book called forth, or how entirely its author cut herself off fromthe favor and sympathy of a large number of those who had previouslydelighted to do her honor. Social and literary circles, which had beenproud of her presence, closed their doors against her. The sale of herbooks, the subscriptions to her magazine, fell off to a ruinous extent. She knew all she was hazarding, and made the great sacrifice, preparedfor all the consequences which followed. In the preface to her book shesays, "I am fully aware of the unpopularity of the task I haveundertaken; but though I expect ridicule and censure, I do not fear them. A few years hence, the opinion of the world will be a matter in which Ihave not even the most transient interest; but this book will be abroadon its mission of humanity long after the hand that wrote it is minglingwith the dust. Should it be the means of advancing, even one singlehour, the inevitable progress of truth and justice, I would not exchangethe consciousness for all Rothschild's wealth or Sir Walter's fame. " Thenceforth her life was a battle; a constant rowing hard against thestream of popular prejudice and hatred. And through it all--pecuniaryprivation, loss of friends and position, the painfulness of beingsuddenly thrust from "the still air of delightful studies" into thebitterest and sternest controversy of the age--she bore herself withpatience, fortitude, and unshaken reliance upon the justice and ultimatetriumph of the cause she had espoused. Her pen was never idle. Whereverthere was a brave word to be spoken, her voice was heard, and neverwithout effect. It is not exaggeration to say that no man or woman atthat period rendered more substantial service to the cause of freedom, ormade such a "great renunciation" in doing it. A practical philanthropist, she had the courage of her convictions, andfrom the first was no mere closet moralist or sentimental bewailer of thewoes of humanity. She was the Samaritan stooping over the wounded Jew. She calmly and unflinchingly took her place by the side, of the despisedslave and free man of color, and in word and act protested against thecruel prejudice which shut out its victims from the rights and privilegesof American citizens. Her philanthropy had no taint of fanaticism;throughout the long struggle, in which she was a prominent actor, shekept her fine sense of humor, good taste, and sensibility to thebeautiful in art and nature. The opposition she met with from those who had shared her confidence and friendship was of course keenly felt, but her kindly and genial disposition remained unsoured. She rarely spoke of her personal trials, and never posed as a martyr. The nearest approach to anything like complaint is in the following lines, the date of which I have not been able to ascertain:-- THE WORLD THAT I AM PASSING THROUGH. Few in the days of early youth Trusted like me in love and truth. I've learned sad lessons from the years, But slowly, and with many tears; For God made me to kindly view The world that I am passing through. Though kindness and forbearance long Must meet ingratitude and wrong, I still would bless my fellow-men, And trust them though deceived again. God help me still to kindly view The world that I am passing through. From all that fate has brought to me I strive to learn humility, And trust in Him who rules above, Whose universal law is love. Thus only can I kindly view The world that I am passing through. When I approach the setting sun, And feel my journey well-nigh done, May Earth be veiled in genial light, And her last smile to me seem bright. Help me till then to kindly view The world that I am passing through. And all who tempt a trusting heart From faith and hope to drift apart, May they themselves be spared the pain Of losing power to trust again. God help us all to kindly view The world that we are passing through. While faithful to the great duty which she felt was laid upon her in anespecial manner, she was by no means a reformer of one idea, but herinterest was manifested in every question affecting the welfare ofhumanity. Peace, temperance, education, prison reform, and equality ofcivil rights, irrespective of sex, engaged her attention. Under all thedisadvantages of her estrangement from popular favor, her charming Greekromance of _Philothea_ and her _Lives of Madame Roland_ and the _Baronessde Stael_ proved that her literary ability had lost nothing of itsstrength, and that the hand which penned such terrible rebukes had stillkept its delicate touch, and gracefully yielded to the inspiration offancy and art. While engaged with her husband in the editorialsupervision of the _Anti-Slavery Standard_, she wrote her admirable_Letters from New York_; humorous, eloquent, and picturesque, but stillhumanitarian in tone, which extorted the praise of even a pro-slaverycommunity. Her great work, in three octavo volumes, _The Progress ofReligious Ideas_, belongs, in part, to that period. It is an attempt torepresent in a candid, unprejudiced manner the rise and progress of thegreat religions of the world, and their ethical relations to each other. She availed herself of, and carefully studied, the authorities at thattime accessible, and the result is creditable to her scholarship, industry, and conscientiousness. If, in her desire to do justice to thereligions of Buddha and Mohammed, in which she has been followed byMaurice, Max Muller, and Dean Stanley, she seems at times to dwell uponthe best and overlook the darker features of those systems, herconcluding reflections should vindicate her from the charge ofundervaluing the Christian faith, or of lack of reverent appreciation ofits founder. In the closing chapter of her work, in which the largecharity and broad sympathies of her nature are manifest, she thus turnswith words of love, warm from the heart, to Him whose Sermon on the Mountincludes most that is good and true and vital in the religions andphilosophies of the world:-- "It was reserved for Him to heal the brokenhearted, to preach a gospel tothe poor, to say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she lovedmuch. ' Nearly two thousand years have passed away since these words oflove and pity were uttered, yet when I read them my eyes fill with tears. I thank Thee, O Heavenly Father, for all the messengers thou hast sent toman; but, above all, I thank Thee for Him, thy beloved Son! Pure lilyblossom of the centuries, taking root in the lowliest depths, andreceiving the light and warmth of heaven in its golden heart! All thatthe pious have felt, all that poets have said, all that artists havedone, with their manifold forms of beauty, to represent the ministry ofJesus, are but feeble expressions of the great debt we owe Him who iseven now curing the lame, restoring sight to the blind, and raising thedead in that spiritual sense wherein all miracle is true. " During her stay in New York, as editor of the _Anti-Slavery Standard_, she found a pleasant home at the residence of the genial philanthropist, Isaac T. Hopper, whose remarkable life she afterwards wrote. Herportrayal of this extraordinary man, so brave, so humorous, so tender andfaithful to his convictions of duty, is one of the most readable piecesof biography in English literature. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, in adiscriminating paper published in 1869, speaks of her eight years'sojourn in New York as the most interesting and satisfactory period ofher whole life. "She was placed where her sympathetic nature foundabundant outlet and occupation. Dwelling in a house wheredisinterestedness and noble labor were as daily breath, she had greatopportunities. There was no mere alms-giving; but sin and sorrow mustbe brought home to the fireside and the heart; the fugitive slave, thedrunkard, the outcast woman, must be the chosen guests of the abode, --must be taken, and held, and loved into reformation or hope. " It would be a very imperfect representation of Maria Child which regardedher only from a literary point of view. She was wise in counsel; and menlike Charles Sumner, Henry Wilson, Salmon P. Chase, and Governor Andrewavailed themselves of her foresight and sound judgment of men andmeasures. Her pen was busy with correspondence, and whenever a true manor a good cause needed encouragement, she was prompt to give it. Herdonations for benevolent causes and beneficent reforms were constant andliberal; and only those who knew her intimately could understand thecheerful and unintermitted self-denial which alone enabled her to makethem. She did her work as far as possible out of sight, without noise orpretension. Her time, talents, and money were held not as her own, but atrust from the Eternal Father for the benefit of His suffering children. Her plain, cheap dress was glorified by the generous motive for which shewore it. Whether in the crowded city among the sin-sick and starving, oramong the poor and afflicted in the neighborhood of her country home, nostory of suffering and need, capable of alleviation, ever reached herwithout immediate sympathy and corresponding action. Lowell, one of herwarmest admirers, in his _Fable for Critics_ has beautifully portrayedher abounding benevolence:-- "There comes Philothea, her face all aglow: She has just been dividing some poor creature's woe, And can't tell which pleases her most, to relieve His want, or his story to hear and believe. No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails, For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales; She knows well that silence is sorrow's best food, And that talking draws off from the heart its black blood. " "The pole, science tells us, the magnet controls, But she is a magnet to emigrant Poles, And folks with a mission that nobody knows Throng thickly about her as bees round a rose. She can fill up the carets in such, make their scope Converge to some focus of rational hope, And, with sympathies fresh as the morning, their gall Can transmute into honey, --but this is not all; Not only for those she has solace; O, say, Vice's desperate nursling adrift in Broadway, Who clingest, with all that is left of thee human, To the last slender spar from the wreck of the woman, Hast thou not found one shore where those tired, drooping feet Could reach firm mother-earth, one full heart on whose beat The soothed head in silence reposing could hear The chimes of far childhood throb back on the ear?" "Ah, there's many a beam from the fountain of day That, to reach us unclouded, must pass, on its way, Through the soul of a woman, and hers is wide ope To the influence of Heaven as the blue eyes of Hope; Yes, a great heart is hers, one that dares to go in To the prison, the slave-hut, the alleys of sin, And to bring into each, or to find there, some line Of the never completely out-trampled divine; If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and then, 'T is but richer for that when the tide ebbs again, As, after old Nile has subsided, his plain Overflows with a second broad deluge of grain; What a wealth would it bring to the narrow and sour, Could they be as a Child but for one little hour!" After leaving New York, her husband and herself took up their residencein the rural town of Wayland, Mass. Their house, plain andunpretentious, had a wide and pleasant outlook; a flower garden, carefully tended by her own hands, in front, and on the side a fruitorchard and vegetable garden, under the special care of her husband. Thehouse was always neat, with some appearance of unostentatious decoration, evincing at once the artistic taste of the hostess and the conscientiouseconomy which forbade its indulgence to any great extent. Her home wassomewhat apart from the lines of rapid travel, and her hospitality was ina great measure confined to old and intimate friends, while her visits tothe city were brief and infrequent. A friend of hers, who had ampleopportunities for a full knowledge of her home-life, says, "The domestichappiness of Mr. And Mrs. Child seemed to me perfect. Their sympathies, their admiration of all things good, and their hearty hatred of allthings mean and evil were in entire unison. Mr. Child shared his wife'senthusiasms, and was very proud of her. Their affection, never paraded, was always manifest. After Mr. Child's death, Mrs. Child, in speaking ofthe future life, said, 'I believe it would be of small value to me if Iwere not united to him. '" In this connection I cannot forbear to give an extract from somereminiscences of her husband, which she left among her papers, which, better than any words of mine, will convey an idea of their simple andbeautiful home-life:-- "In 1852 we made a humble home in Wayland, Mass. , where we spent twenty-two pleasant years entirely alone, without any domestic, mutually servingeach other, and dependent upon each other for intellectual companionship. I always depended on his richly stored mind, which was able and ready tofurnish needed information on any subject. He was my walking dictionaryof many languages, my Universal Encyclopaedia. "In his old age he was as affectionate and devoted as when the lover ofmy youth; nay, he manifested even more tenderness. He was oftensinging, -- "'There's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's old dream. ' "Very often, when he passed by me, he would lay his hand softly on myhead and murmur, 'Carum caput. ' . . . But what I remember with themost tender gratitude is his uniform patience and forbearance with myfaults. . . . He never would see anything but the bright side of mycharacter. He always insisted upon thinking that whatever I said was thewisest and the wittiest, and that whatever I did was the best. Thesimplest little jeu d'esprit of mine seemed to him wonderfully witty. Once, when he said, 'I wish for your sake, dear, I were as rich asCroesus, ' I answered, 'You are Croesus, for you are king of Lydia. ' Howoften he used to quote that! "His mind was unclouded to the last. He had a passion for philology, andonly eight hours before he passed away he was searching out thederivation of a word. " Her well-stored mind and fine conversational gifts made her companyalways desirable. No one who listened to her can forget the earnesteloquence with which she used to dwell upon the evidences, from history, tradition, and experience, of the superhuman and supernatural; or withwhat eager interest she detected in the mysteries of the old religions ofthe world the germs of a purer faith and a holier hope. She loved tolisten, as in St. Pierre's symposium of _The Coffee-House of Surat_, to the confessions of faith of all sects and schools of philosophy, Christian and pagan, and gather from them the consoling truth that ourFather has nowhere left his children without some witness of Himself. She loved the old mystics, and lingered with curious interest andsympathy over the writings of Bohme, Swedenborg, Molinos, and Woolman. Yet this marked speculative tendency seemed not in the slightest degreeto affect her practical activities. Her mysticism and realism ran inclose parallel lines without interfering with each other. With strong rationalistic tendencies from education and conviction, shefound herself in spiritual accord with the pious introversion of Thomasa Kempis and Madame Guion. She was fond of Christmas Eve stories, ofwarnings, signs, and spiritual intimations, her half belief in whichsometimes seemed like credulity to her auditors. James Russell Lowell, in his tender tribute to her, playfully alludes to this characteristic:-- "She has such a musical taste that she 'll go Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow. She will swallow a wonder by mere might and main. " In 1859 the descent of John Brown upon Harper's Ferry, and his capture, trial, and death, startled the nation. When the news reached her thatthe misguided but noble old man lay desperately wounded in prison, aloneand unfriended, she wrote him a letter, under cover of one to GovernorWise, asking permission to go and nurse and care for him. The expectedarrival of Captain Brown's wife made her generous offer unnecessary. Theprisoner wrote her, thanking her, and asking her to help his family, arequest with which she faithfully complied. With his letter came onefrom Governor Wise, in courteous reproval of her sympathy for John Brown. To this she responded in an able and effective manner. Her reply foundits way from Virginia to the New York Tribune, and soon after Mrs. Mason, of King George's County, wife of Senator Mason, the author of theinfamous Fugitive Slave Law, wrote her a vehement letter, commencing withthreats of future damnation, and ending with assuring her that "noSoutherner, after reading her letter to Governor Wise, ought to read aline of her composition, or touch a magazine which bore her name in itslist of contributors. " To this she wrote a calm, dignified reply, declining to dwell on the fierce invectives of her assailant, and wishingher well here and hereafter. She would not debate the specific merits ordemerits of a man whose body was in charge of the courts, and whosereputation was sure to be in charge of posterity. "Men, " she continues, "are of small consequence in comparison with principles, and theprinciple for which John Brown died is the question at issue between us. "These letters were soon published in pamphlet form, and had the immensecirculation of 300, 000 copies. In 1867 she published _A Romance of the Republic_, a story of the days ofslavery; powerful in its delineation of some of the saddest as well asthe most dramatic conditions of master and slave in the Southern States. Her husband, who had been long an invalid, died in 1874. After his deathher home, in winter especially, became a lonely one, and in 1877 shebegan to spend the cold months in Boston. Her last publication was in 1878, when her _Aspirations of the World_, abook of selections, on moral and religious subjects, from the literatureof all nations and times, was given to the public. The introduction, occupying fifty pages, shows, at threescore and ten, her mental vigorunabated, and is remarkable for its wise, philosophic tone and felicityof diction. It has the broad liberality of her more elaborate work onthe same subject, and in the mellow light of life's sunset her words seemtouched with a tender pathos and beauty. "All we poor mortals, " shesays, "are groping our way through paths that are dim with shadows; andwe are all striving, with steps more or less stumbling, to follow someguiding star. As we travel on, beloved companions of our pilgrimagevanish from our sight, we know not whither; and our bereaved hearts uttercries of supplication for more light. We know not where HermesTrismegistus lived, or who he was; but his voice sounds plaintivelyhuman, coming up from the depths of the ages, calling out, 'Thou art God!and thy man crieth these things unto Thee!' Thus closely allied in oursorrows and limitations, in our aspirations and hopes, surely we oughtnot to be separated in our sympathies. However various the names bywhich we call the Heavenly Father, if they are set to music by brotherlylove, they can all be sung together. " Her interest in the welfare of the emancipated class at the South and ofthe ill-fated Indians of the West remained unabated, and she watched withgreat satisfaction the experiment of the education of both classes inGeneral Armstrong's institution at Hampton, Va. She omitted noopportunity of aiding the greatest social reform of the age, which aimsto make the civil and political rights of women equal to those of men. Her sympathies, to the last, went out instinctively to the wronged andweak. She used to excuse her vehemence in this respect by laughinglyquoting lines from a poem entitled _The Under Dog in the Fight_:-- "I know that the world, the great big world, Will never a moment stop To see which dog may be in the wrong, But will shout for the dog on top. "But for me, I never shall pause to ask Which dog may be in the right; For my heart will beat, while it beats at all, For the under dog in the fight. " I am indebted to a gentleman who was at one time a resident of Wayland, and who enjoyed her confidence and warm friendship, for the followingimpressions of her life in that place:-- "On one of the last beautiful Indian summer afternoons, closing the pastyear, I drove through Wayland, and was anew impressed with the charm ofour friend's simple existence there. The tender beauty of the fadingyear seemed a reflection of her own gracious spirit; the lovely autumn ofher life, whose golden atmosphere the frosts of sorrow and advancing agehad only clarified and brightened. "My earliest recollection of Mrs. Child in Wayland is of a gentle faceleaning from the old stage window, smiling kindly down on the childishfigures beneath her; and from that moment her gracious motherly presencehas been closely associated with the charm of rural beauty in thatvillage, which until very lately has been quite apart from the line oftravel, and unspoiled by the rush and worry of our modern steam-car modeof living. "Mrs. Child's life in the place made, indeed, an atmosphere of its own, abenison of peace and good-will, which was a noticeable feature to all whowere acquainted with the social feeling of the little community, refined, as it was too, by the elevating influence of its distinguished pastor, Dr. Sears. Many are the acts of loving kindness and maternal care whichcould be chronicled of her residence there, were we permitted to do so;and numberless are the lives that have gathered their onward impulse fromher helping hand. But it was all a confidence which she hardly betrayedto her inmost self, and I will not recall instances which might be hergrandest eulogy. Her monument is builded in the hearts which knew herbenefactions, and it will abide with 'the power that makes forrighteousness. ' "One of the pleasantest elements of her life in Wayland was the highregard she won from the people of the village, who, proud of her literaryattainment, valued yet more the noble womanhood of the friend who dweltso modestly among them. The grandeur of her exalted personal characterhad, in part, eclipsed for them the qualities which made her fame withthe world outside. "The little house on the quiet by-road overlooked broad green meadows. The pond behind it, where bloom the lilies whose spotless purity may wellsymbolize her gentle spirit, is a sacred pool to her townsfolk. Butperhaps the most fitting similitude of her life in Wayland was the quietflow of the river, whose gentle curves make green her meadows, but whosepowerful energy, joining the floods from distant mountains, moves, withresistless might, the busy shuttles of a hundred mills. She was tootruthful to affect to welcome unwarrantable invaders of her peace, but noweary traveller on life's hard ways ever applied to her in vain. Thelittle garden plot before her door was a sacred enclosure, not to berudely intruded upon; but the flowers she tended with maternal care wereno selfish possession, for her own enjoyment only, and many are the livestheir sweetness has gladdened forever. So she lived among a singularlypeaceful and intelligent community as one of themselves, industrious, wise, and happy; with a frugality whose motive of wider benevolence wasin itself a homily and a benediction. " In my last interview with her, our conversation, as had often happenedbefore, turned upon the great theme of the future life. She spoke, as Iremember, calmly and not uncheerfully, but with the intense earnestnessand reverent curiosity of one who felt already the shadow of the unseenworld resting upon her. Her death was sudden and quite unexpected. For some months she had beentroubled with a rheumatic affection, but it was by no means regarded asserious. A friend, who visited her a few days before her departure, found her in a comfortable condition, apart from lameness. She talked ofthe coming election with much interest, and of her plans for the winter. On the morning of her death (October 20, 1880) she spoke of feelingremarkably well. Before leaving her chamber she complained of severepain in the region of the heart. Help was called by her companion, butonly reached her to witness her quiet passing away. The funeral was, as befitted one like her, plain and simple. Many of herold friends were present, and Wendell Phillips paid an affecting andeloquent tribute to his old friend and anti-slavery coadjutor. Hereferred to the time when she accepted, with serene self-sacrifice, theobloquy which her _Appeal_ had brought upon her, and noted, as one of themany ways in which popular hatred was manifested, the withdrawal from herof the privileges of the Boston Athenaeum. Her pallbearers were elderly, plain farmers in the neighborhood; and, led by the old white-hairedundertaker, the procession wound its way to the not distant burial-ground, over the red and gold of fallen leaves, and tinder the half-clouded October sky. A lover of all beautiful things, she was, as herintimate friends knew, always delighted by the sight of rainbows, andused to so arrange prismatic glasses as to throw the colors on the wallsof her room. Just after her body was consigned to the earth, amagnificent rainbow spanned with its are of glory the eastern sky. The incident at her burial is alluded to in a sonnet written by William P. Andrews:-- "Freedom! she knew thy summons, and obeyed That clarion voice as yet scarce heard of men; Gladly she joined thy red-cross service when Honor and wealth must at thy feet be laid Onward with faith undaunted, undismayed By threat or scorn, she toiled with hand and brain To make thy cause triumphant, till the chain Lay broken, and for her the freedmen prayed. Nor yet she faltered; in her tender care She took us all; and wheresoe'er she went, Blessings, and Faith, and Beauty followed there, E'en to the end, where she lay down content; And with the gold light of a life more fair, Twin bows of promise o'er her grave were blest. " The letters in this collection constitute but a small part of her largecorrespondence. They have been gathered up and arranged by the hands ofdear relatives and friends as a fitting memorial of one who wrote fromthe heart as well as the head, and who held her literary reputationsubordinate always to her philanthropic aim to lessen the sum of humansuffering, and to make the world better for her living. If theysometimes show the heat and impatience of a zealous reformer, they maywell be pardoned in consideration of the circumstances under which theywere written, and of the natural indignation of a generous nature in viewof wrong and oppression. If she touched with no very reverent hand thegarment hem of dogmas, and held to the spirit of Scripture rather thanits letter, it must be remembered that she lived in a time when the Biblewas cited in defence of slavery, as it is now in Utah in support ofpolygamy; and she may well be excused for some degree of impatience withthose who, in the tithing of mint and anise and cummin, neglected theweightier matters of the law of justice and mercy. Of the men and women directly associated with the beloved subject of thissketch, but few are now left to recall her single-hearted devotion toapprehended duty, her unselfish generosity, her love of all beauty andharmony, and her trustful reverence, free from pretence and cant. It isnot unlikely that the surviving sharers of her love and friendship mayfeel the inadequateness of this brief memorial, for I close it with theconsciousness of having failed to fully delineate the picture which mymemory holds of a wise and brave, but tender and loving woman, of whom itmight well have been said, in the words of the old Hebrew text, "Many, daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. " OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES On the occasion of the seventy-fifth birthday of Dr. Holmes _The Critic of New York_ collected personal tributes from friends and admirers of that author. My own contribution was as follows:-- Poet, essayist, novelist, humorist, scientist, ripe scholar, and wisephilosopher, if Dr. Holmes does not, at the present time, hold in popularestimation the first place in American literature, his rare versatilityis the cause. In view of the inimitable prose writer, we forget thepoet; in our admiration of his melodious verse, we lose sight of _ElsieVenner_ and _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_. We laugh over his witand humor, until, to use his own words, "We suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot, As if Wisdom's old potato could not flourish at its root;" and perhaps the next page melts us into tears by a pathos only equalledby that of Sterne's sick Lieutenant. He is Montaigne and Bacon under onehat. His varied qualities would suffice for the mental furnishing ofhalf a dozen literary specialists. To those who have enjoyed the privilege of his intimate acquaintance, theman himself is more than the author. His genial nature, entire freedomfrom jealousy or envy, quick tenderness, large charity, hatred of sham, pretence, and unreality, and his reverent sense of the eternal andpermanent have secured for him something more and dearer than literaryrenown, --the love of all who know him. I might say much more: I couldnot say less. May his life be long in the land. Amesbury, Mass. , 8th Month, 18, 1884. LONGFELLOW Written to the chairman of the committee of arrangements for unveiling the bust of Longfellow at Portland, Maine, on the poet's birthday, February 27, 1885. I am sorry it is not in my power to accept the invitation of thecommittee to be present at the unveiling of the bust of Longfellow on the27th instant, or to write anything worthy of the occasion in metricalform. The gift of the Westminster Abbey committee cannot fail to add anotherstrong tie of sympathy between two great English-speaking peoples. Andnever was gift more fitly bestowed. The city of Portland--the poet'sbirthplace, "beautiful for situation, " looking from its hills on thescenery he loved so well, Deering's Oaks, the many-islanded bay and farinland mountains, delectable in sunset--needed this sculpturedrepresentation of her illustrious son, and may well testify her joy andgratitude at its reception, and repeat in so doing the words of theHebrew prophet: "O man, greatly beloved! thou shalt stand in thy place. " OLD NEWBURY. Letter to Samuel J. Spalding, D. D. , on the occasion of the celebration of the 250th anniversary of the settlement of Newbury. MY DEAR FRIEND, --I am sorry that I cannot hope to be with you on the250th anniversary of the settlement of old Newbury. Although I canhardly call myself a son of the ancient town, my grandmother, SarahGreenleaf, of blessed memory, was its daughter, and I may therefore claimto be its grandson. Its genial and learned historian, Joshua Coffin, wasmy first school-teacher, and all my life I have lived in sight of itsgreen hills and in hearing of its Sabbath bells. Its wealth of naturalbeauty has not been left unsung by its own poets, Hannah Gould, Mrs. Hopkins, George Lunt, and Edward A. Washburn, while Harriet PrescottSpofford's Plum Island Sound is as sweet and musical as Tennyson's Brook. Its history and legends are familiar to me. I seem to have known all itsold worthies, whose descendants have helped to people a continent, andwho have carried the name and memories of their birthplace to the Mexicangulf and across the Rocky Mountains to the shores of the Pacific. Theywere the best and selectest of Puritanism, brave, honest, God-fearing menand women; and if their creed in the lapse of time has lost something ofits vigor, the influence of their ethical righteousness still endures. The prophecy of Samuel Sewall that Christians should be found in Newburyso long as pigeons shall roost on its oaks and Indian corn grows inOldtown fields remains still true, and we trust will always remain so. Yet, as of old, the evil personage sometimes intrudes himself intocompany too good for him. It was said in the witchcraft trials of 1692that Satan baptized his converts at Newbury Falls, the scene, probably, of one of Hawthorne's weird _Twice Told Tales_; and there is a traditionthat, in the midst of a heated controversy between one of Newbury'spainful ministers and his deacon, who (anticipating Garrison by acentury) ventured to doubt the propriety of clerical slaveholding, theAdversary made his appearance in the shape of a black giant stalkingthrough Byfield. It was never, I believe, definitely settled whether hewas drawn there by the minister's zeal in defence of slavery or thedeacon's irreverent denial of the minister's right and duty to curseCanaan in the person of his negro. Old Newbury has sometimes been spoken of as ultra-conservative andhostile to new ideas and progress, but this is not warranted by itshistory. More than two centuries ago, when Major Pike, just across theriver, stood up and denounced in open town meeting the law againstfreedom of conscience and worship, and was in consequence fined andoutlawed, some of Newbury's best citizens stood bravely by him. The towntook no part in the witchcraft horror, and got none of its old women andtown charges hanged for witches, "Goody" Morse had the spirit rappings inher house two hundred years earlier than the Fox girls did, and somewhatlater a Newbury minister, in wig and knee-buckles, rode, Bible in hand, over to Hampton to lay a ghost who had materialized himself and wasstamping up and down stairs in his military boots. Newbury's ingenious citizen, Jacob Perkins, in drawing out diseases withhis metallic tractors, was quite as successful as modern "faith and mind"doctors. The Quakers, whipped at Hampton on one hand and at Salem on theother, went back and forth unmolested in Newbury, for they could make noimpression on its iron-clad orthodoxy. Whitefield set the example, sincefollowed by the Salvation Army, of preaching in its streets, and now liesburied under one of its churches with almost the honors of sainthood. William Lloyd Garrison was born in Newbury. The town must be regarded asthe Alpha and Omega of anti-slavery agitation, beginning with itsabolition deacon and ending with Garrison. Puritanism, here aselsewhere, had a flavor of radicalism; it had its humorous side, and itsministers did not hesitate to use wit and sarcasm, like Elijah before thepriests of Baal. As, for instance, the wise and learned clergyman, Puritan of the Puritans, beloved and reverenced by all, who has just laiddown the burden of his nearly one hundred years, startled and shamed hisbrother ministers who were zealously for the enforcement of the FugitiveSlave Law, by preparing for them a form of prayer for use while engagedin catching runaway slaves. I have, I fear, dwelt too long upon the story and tradition of the oldtown, which will doubtless be better told by the orator of the day. Thetheme is to me full of interest. Among the blessings which I wouldgratefully own is the fact that my lot has been cast in the beautifulvalley of the Merrimac, within sight of Newbury steeples, Plum Island, and Crane Neck and Pipe Stave hills. Let me, in closing, pay something of the debt I have owed from boyhood, by expressing a sentiment in which I trust every son of the ancient townwill unite: Joshua Coffin, historian of Newbury, teacher, scholar, andantiquarian, and one of the earliest advocates of slave emancipation. Mayhis memory be kept green, to use the words of Judge Sewall, "so long asPlum island keeps its post and a sturgeon leaps in Merrimac River. " Amesbury, 6th Month, 1885. SCHOOLDAY REMEMBRANCES. To Rev. Charles Wingate, Hon. James H. Carleton, Thomas B. Garland, Esq. , Committee of Students of Haverhill Academy: DEAR FRIENDS, --I was most agreeably surprised last evening by receivingyour carefully prepared and beautiful Haverhill Academy Album, containingthe photographs of a large number of my old friends and schoolmates. Iknow of nothing which could have given me more pleasure. If the facesrepresented are not so unlined and ruddy as those which greeted eachother at the old academy, on the pleasant summer mornings so long ago, when life was before us, with its boundless horizon of possibilities, yet, as I look over them, I see that, on the whole, Time has not beenhard with us, but has touched us gently. The hieroglyphics he has tracedupon us may, indeed, reveal something of the cares, trials, and sorrowsincident to humanity, but they also tell of generous endeavor, beneficentlabor, developed character, and the slow, sure victories of patience andfortitude. I turn to them with the proud satisfaction of feeling that Ihave been highly favored in my early companions, and that I have not beendisappointed in my school friendships. The two years spent at theacademy I have always reckoned among the happiest of my life, though Ihave abundant reason for gratitude that, in the long, intervening years, I have been blessed beyond my deserving. It has been our privilege to live in an eventful period, and to witnesswonderful changes since we conned our lessons together. How little wethen dreamed of the steam car, electric telegraph, and telephone! Westudied the history and geography of a world only half explored. Ourcountry was an unsolved mystery. "The Great American Desert" was anawful blank on our school maps. We have since passed through theterrible ordeal of civil war, which has liberated enslaved millions, andmade the union of the States an established fact, and no longer adoubtful theory. If life is to be measured not so much by years as bythoughts, emotion, knowledge, action, and its opportunity of a freeexercise of all our powers and faculties, we may congratulate ourselvesupon really outliving the venerable patriarchs. For myself, I would notexchange a decade of my own life for a century of the Middle Ages, or a"cycle of Cathay. " Let me, gentlemen, return my heartiest thanks to you, and to all who haveinterested themselves in the preparation of the Academy Album, and assureyou of my sincere wishes for your health and happiness. OAK KNOLL, DANVERS, 12th Month, 25, 1885. EDWIN PERCY WHIPPLE. I have been pained to learn of the decease of nay friend of many years, Edwin P. Whipple. Death, however expected, is always something of asurprise, and in his case I was not prepared for it by knowing of anyserious failure of his health. With the possible exception of Lowell andMatthew Arnold, he was the ablest critical essayist of his time, and theplace he has left will not be readily filled. Scarcely inferior to Macaulay in brilliance of diction and graphicportraiture, he was freer from prejudice and passion, and more loyal tothe truth of fact and history. He was a thoroughly honest man. He wrotewith conscience always at his elbow, and never sacrificed his realconvictions for the sake of epigram and antithesis. He instinctivelytook the right side of the questions that came before him for decision, even when by so doing he ranked himself with the unpopular minority. Hehad the manliest hatred of hypocrisy and meanness; but if his languagehad at times the severity of justice, it was never merciless. He "setdown naught in malice. " Never blind to faults, he had a quick and sympathetic eye for any realexcellence or evidence of reserved strength in the author underdiscussion. He was a modest man, sinking his own personality out of sight, and healways seemed to me more interested in the success of others than in hisown. Many of his literary contemporaries have had reason to thank himnot only for his cordial recognition and generous praise, but for thefirm and yet kindly hand which pointed out deficiencies and errors oftaste and judgment. As one of those who have found pleasure and profitin his writings in the past, I would gratefully commend them to thegeneration which survives him. His _Literature of the Age of Elizabeth_is deservedly popular, but there are none of his Essays which will notrepay a careful study. "What works of Mr. Baxter shall I read?" askedBoswell of Dr. Johnson. "Read any of them, " was the answer, "for theyare all good. " He will have an honored place in the history of American literature. ButI cannot now dwell upon his authorship while thinking of him as thebeloved member of a literary circle now, alas sadly broken. I recall thewise, genial companion and faithful friend of nearly half a century, thememory of whose words and acts of kindness moistens my eyes as I write. It is the inevitable sorrow of age that one's companions must drop awayon the right hand and the left with increasing frequency, until we arecompelled to ask with Wordsworth, -- "Who next shall fall and disappear?" But in the case of him who has just passed from us, we have thesatisfaction of knowing that his life-work has been well and faithfullydone, and that he leaves behind him only friends. DANVERS, 6th Month, 18, 1886.