of beauty, none will mourn they.

more sincerely than

Let me offer one more illustration, perhaps it is the most striking of all, of the peculiarities of Col. Lincoln. I refer to the noble act, for which he will be remembered longest, and for which, when his other good deeds are forgotten, he will receive the tribute of the widow's gratitude and the orphan's tears. Bear in mind who and what he was, and then behold the strength of his purpose and the goodness of his heart. He had never experienced the bitterness of orphanage; he had been nursed in plenty. He had never had a wife, had never looked upon the face, or wept over the loss, of a child. Stern duties called him away into scenes where childhood never enters; yet who among us was touched with so warm a sympathy for the houseless and homeless of our city? Who gave so largely, and furnished with such hearty good-will the "Home" which opens wide its doors, and affords the shelter of its roof to the neglected and forsaken? When our benevolent ladies, successors of those who adorned the early annals of our faith, true Sisters of Charity, had gone out into the streets and gathered together the orphaned, had fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and nursed the sick; and now, exhausted

of their resources, appealed to our compassion,

when the poor children

"Looked up with their pale and sunken faces,

And their looks were sad to see;

Your old earth, they say, is very dreary;

Our young feet, they say, are very weak!"

who heard this cry, and responded most nobly to this appeal? It was our kind-hearted friend, whose heart. has now ceased to beat, and whose hand has done its last work of kindness. He heard the cry, and responded most nobly to the appeal, not by words of pity, not by expressions of sympathy, not by communicating his thought or his feeling to any one on earth. That was not his way. He never told you how much he loved you, nor how much he was interested in any given object; but he dropped the token of his affection in your path, left the gift before the altar, and went his way. So, when he looked upon the pale and sunken faces of these children; when he learned how much had been done for them, and what were now their great needs, - he did not express aloud his pity, and proclaim his purpose, but went to work to provide a spacious home, personally directed all the arrangements, personally procured what in his judgment was most suitable and needful, and then as quietly and unostentatiously recorded his deed of gift, and placed it in the hands of the guar

dians of the institution; thus, in the surest and most substantial way, laying the foundations of an asylum which will be a glory in our city, and providing a home for the homeless in all time.

From these incidents in the life of our deceased fellow-worshipper, I think it will be easy to obtain some conception of what he was. He was a strong man,

one of the strongest, if not the strongest, we have had among us. Not perhaps in eloquent speech or power of expression, for he was not gifted in that way; though when he spoke he was listened to with attention, for he had something to say. Not perhaps in pre-eminent sagacity, though he was clear-headed and far-sighted: he could look quite through a subject, and knew how to adapt means to ends. The mental quality which distinguished him above all others was an amazing executive talent, an unsurpassed ability to accomplish what he undertook. Nothing seemed too arduous for him to attempt, or too difficult for him to achieve: if it were practicable for any one, he would accomplish it. But with his energy there was no restlessness, no nervous excitability. His step was measured, and his language deliberate. His was a calmness, a tranquillity, but withal a decisiveness, as if the time for argument were over, and the time for action had come.

Some

who knew him little, called this obstinacy, self-will; and perhaps at times it was, for the oak is gnarled, not the poplar. But others, who knew him better, said it was only a firm reliance on his own clear judgment, and an invincible purpose, which no threats nor entreaties could divert, to follow his convictions of duty. There was within him a deep internal principle of right, and he could no more disregard this than he could deny his own being. During his last sickness, in a half-conscious state, -one of those moods of the spirit induced by his great bodily weakness,— he expressed what I would now indicate as most significant of himself: "Be sure," he said, "you are right, and then go ahead."

This principle of right was also the groundwork of his moral character. He could not do a mean or dishonest act. I never heard his integrity doubted, or the purity of his motives called in question. He was tried by the reverses of fortune. He met with losses; his prospects were overcast, and his affairs involved by the failure of others. He was tried by the harder trial of prosperity. He enjoyed the confidence of friends and the public, and obtained the gratification of his most ambitious desires. But, alike in storm and sunshine, in prosperity and adversity, he was the same man. No extravagance was remembered

against him in the days of his success; no mean evasions were charged against him in the season of his reverses. Simple and inexpensive in his habits, trusted and honored alike under each changing circumstance, he himself remained unchanged, never unduly elated, never unduly depressed. He sought to be faithful where the Providence of God placed him. With each day came the duty and the trial; and in no condition of trial did he find an apology for a neglect of the duty. When he was very sick, the relative who constantly attended him proposed to remain with him, instead of going abroad, on the usual day devoted to some work of charity. But no! feeble as he was, scarcely able to lift his hand, he reminded her of the day and of the work, earnestly adding, "Never neglect a duty." He never neglected his.

But this principle of right, which formed the groundwork of his character, was not an abstraction. It had a foundation in something deeper than itself, - in a profound sentiment of reverence, which seemed to give a coloring to his whole nature, and to pervade his whole being. He revered this, the city of his birth. Every object in the landscape, every relic of its former days, every token of its prosperity, its good name and good estate, were dear to him. These hills