YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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IN MEMOHIAM

J. W. B.

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED FOR HIS FRIENDS,
Bt CRCSBY. NICHOLS, LEE AND COMPANY.
1860.

RIVERSIDE PRESS:
H. 0. HOUGHTON, PRINTER, CAMBRIDGE.

CV.32

PREFACE

Few words are needed to explain the origin and con
tents of this volume, which is not addressed to the public,
but only to those who knew and loved the subject of its
It contains, —

I. A Memoir of the Life of John W. Browne, by his
friend, John A. Andrew.
II. A Sermon preached at the Third Congregational
Church, Hingham, May 6, 1860, by Rev. Charles C.
Shackford. III. An Extract from a Sermon preached at the North
Church, Salem, June 3, 1860, by Rev. Edmund B. Willson.
rV. A Resolution adopted by the New England Anti-
Slavery Convention, May 31, 1860, together with an
Extract from the Speech of Wendell Phillips.

IV PRBFACB.
V. Some Remarks concerning Mr. Browne, by his
classmate, James Dana, July 18, 1860.
VI. Some Remarks concerning Mr. Browne, by his
classmate, Charles Sumner.
VII. Selections from the Notices of the Life and Char
acter of Mr. Browne, which appeared in the newspapers
of the day ; of which it may be permitted to mention
that that signed with the initial ¦' A " was written by
Samuel P. Andrews, and that signed " * " by Dr. "Walter
Channing. Several of Mr. Shackford's hearers had requested from
him a copy of his discourse for publication, when, the fact
becoming known, it was suggested that it might well be
accompanied from the press by these other testimonials
of respect for Mr. Browne's memory. The suggestion
was willingly accepted, and the work of collecting and
arranging these pages has been affectionately and rev
erently performed by A. G. B., Jr.

MEMOIR

JOHN A. ANDREW-

When to the common rest that crowns our day.s.
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,
* * •* * when our bitter tears
Stream as the eyes of those that love us close.
We think on what they were, with many fears
Lest goodness die with them and leave the coming years.
Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight
Of ages; * * * let the light
Stream on his deeds of love that shunned the sight
Of all but heaven. THE AGES.

MEMOIR.

John White Browne was bom at Salem, March
29, 1810, and at the time of his death, May 1,
1860, had, therefore, recently completed his fiftieth
year. He was the son of James and Lydia (Vincent)
Browne, and his father was the eldest lineal descendant
of Elder John Browne, the Ruling Elder of the First
Church in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, whose
appointment in 1660, the Reverend John Higginson
made a condition of his own assumption of the clerical
charge, and who is probably identical with John
Browne, one of the 'Assistants named in the original
charter of the Colony in 1628, who, with his brother
Samuel, was banished in 1629 for a supposed leaning
towards Episcopacy, but returned to Salem after an
interval of several years, which were passed in Eng
land and Maryland.
Few persons of the rare qualities of intellect which
our friend possessed by nature, and of so precious
acquirements, from reading and reflection, have at the

age of fifty years done less than he to attract the curi
osity or the attention of the public ; while fewer still, of
whatever capacity or culture, have lived more useful
lives, or died more truly loved, respected, and rev
erenced by those to whom they were known. The
tribute to his memory, contained in the discourse of
his friend, who, of all the tenants of the pulpit, was
perhaps nearest to his heart, leaves less to be added
than might otherwise be written ; but a brief and
simple outline of some of the principal facts of his
Ufe, will help to complete the record.
Mr. Browne was devoted quite early to one of the
learned professions. He was fitted for college at the
Salem Classical School, (the first classical school ever
established in New England,) under the care of masters
Theodore Ames and Henry K. Oliver. He entered
Harvard College in 1826, and was graduated as one
of the first scholars of the class of 1830. That class
numbered among its members the late Thomas Hop
kinson, a Judge of the Court of Common Pleas of
Massachusetts, and Charles Sumner, now one of the
Senators in Congress from that State ; and during the
whole of Mr- Browne's collegiate life, he was the
chum of one or the other of those gentlemen. After
graduation, he commenced the study of the law at
the Law School connected with the University, and

pursued it further in the ofiSce of the late Rufus
Choate at Salem. After the removal of Mr. Choate to
Boston, in 1832, he became a student with the late
Leverett Saltonstall, so many years the President and
leader of the Essex bar, with whom he completed his
novitiate as a lawyer. Those ^vho shared the intimate
confidence of Mr. Browne in his later years, will re
member how his voice and eye kindled and warmed
whenever he spoke of these and of some other friends
of his earlier manhood. His love of quiet, patient,
truth-seeking pursuits, — of that search for knowledge
which is its own reward, — must have made this period
of study, compared with all other passages of his life,
one of peculiar happiness and satisfaction ; and those
who had guided or befriended him in threading his
way, and especially such as had then won his personal
affection, were cherished and remembered by him with
the utmost fidelity.
After his admission to the bar, Mr. Browne became
resident at Lynn, and began there the practice of his
profession. There he continued in the performance of
its ordinary duties until his removal to Boston, where
the variety and extent of employment affords oppor
tunity for subdivision of labor and for some selection
on the part of the practitioner. In Boston, he de
voted himself almost exclusively to the department of

6
conveyancing and to office-practice, avoiding, except at
rare intervals, the anxieties and excitements of the
court-room. Notwithstanding a singular directness and
clearness of vision, a great capacity to learn and to
remember both principles and details, a perception
which no sophistry could deceive, a power of discrim
ination which could defy every difficulty and entangle
ment, a style of writing and of speech, and a manner,
voice and temperament all fitted for the eloquence of
the forum, a moral hesitation was from the first always
in the way of his self-possession, and therefore of his
success in the arena of the bar. But if he did not
perfectly succeed, yet he never failed. Whatever
forensic task he undertook, he accomplished to the
satisfaction of his audience, if not of himself ; and
when I have contrasted the bold nonsense of shallow
declaimers, sometimes mistaken for argumentative ora
tory, and often winning the crown, with the crystal
reasoning, simple and beautiful statement, chaste and
forcible style of John W. Browne, as I have occasion
ally heard him, and when I have seen him persistently
avoiding the high places which his refined morality
would have purified and ennobled, I have sometimes
felt that his self-imposed restraint was a testimony
against us all.
While residing at Lynn, Mr. Browne represented

that town in the Legislature, in 1837. The impression
which he made upon his associates in this brief and
youthful connection with public and political affairs,
was such that, to his own surprise, and during his
temporary absence from the State, the Whig Conven
tion of Essex County, in 1838, nominated him as a can
didate for the Senate of the Commonwealth. But the
confidence inspired by his integrity, and the respect
commanded by his talents, were unperceived by him
in a degree hardly to be understood in the instance
of any one of less sensitive modesty. His strength
of purpose was surpassed only by the strength of his
convictions, which were set forth in the letter in which
he declined to accept the nomination. He was then
but twenty-eight years old. He had a career before
him in which he might have secured distinction as a
public man, and have been no less useful than dis
tinguished ; but, a pure heart, simple tastes, and a
modest choice of a position in life, forbade an en
counter with the bewilderments and the possibilities
of moral entanglement and mischance, which such a
career might involve. His letter of declination (which
was the last act of his life in connection with the
politics of any party), well deserves to be rescued
from forgetfulness, and to be recorded where his
friends may read the wisdom of that rare young man,

whose prophecy of more than twenty years ago he
lived to see historically fulfilled. Lynn, November 5, 1838.
To ihe. Whig County Committee of the County of Essex,
Gentlemkst, —
I respectfully decline the nomination as a candidate
for the Senate of Massachusetts, with which the Whig
Convention at Ipswich have honored me. Upon my
return home on Friday evening last, after a tem
porary absence from the State, I was informed of the
nomination. It was wholly unexpected by me. Had
I received, beforehand, any intimation that my name
would be presented to the Convention, I should have
authorized some one of the Delegates to withdraw it.
Before leaving home, thinking that during my absence
the nomination for Representatives from this town to
the General Court would be made by the Whigs, I
requested one of my friends here to be present at the
caucus, and in my name to decline a reelection, in
tending to disconnect myself entirely from party pol
itics. In the contest against the past and present
administrations of the general government, I have been
and am a Whig. I have been and am a Whig, be
cause I have been and am a Democrat, not otherwise.
In my opinion, the claim of the Van Buren party, as

9
a party, to Democracy, is wholly unfounded. In my
opinion, the political morality of the country has de
generated, office has become a speculation, political
principles a stock in trade, the rights of minorities a
thing of no account, and government, practically, the
fierce and uncontrolled wUl of the strongest faction,
(and this not in one party alone, but in a measure
in the other, since evil will provoke retaliation, and
tends to reproduce itself,) mainly through the influ
ence of the administration of the general government
for the last nine years. But for several years past,
it has seemed to me that this strife of the two great
political parties was occasional and temporary ; and
that both had forgotten or overlooked in their con
troversy the great principles of equal liberty for all,
upon which a free government must rest as its only
true and safe basis. To these principles my para
mount allegiance is given, and Whiggism and Toryism
are of no account when weighed with them. Our
government is theoretically free, but the country is
not a free country. One sixth of its whole population
are slaves. I disconnect myself from party, whose
iron grasp holds hard even upon the least of us, and
mean in my httle sphere as a private individual, to
serve what seems to me the cause of the country
and humanity. I cannot place currency above liberty ;

10
I cannot place money above man ; I cannot fight
heartily for the Whigs and against their opponents,
when I feel that whichever shall be the victorious
party, the claims of humanity will be forgotten in the
triumph, and that the rights of the slave may be
crushed beneath the advancing hosts of the victors.
The question of slavery, in which marvellous events
in Congress and in the country within the last three
or four years have shown the liberties of the nation
to be bound up, not for the black alone, but for the
white, for us all, is first with me. The South, and
the Nbrth, the whole country are concerned in it ;
for in the language of Mr. Webster, (never more
applicable than here,) " We have one Country, one
Constitution, one Destiny." This truth is as tremen
dous in the prospect of evil, as it is thrilhng in its
hope of good. Slavery was the element of discord
in the Convention which framed the Constitution of
the United States ; it is the seminal principle of dis
cord in the country ; and almost all the conflicting
questions which have agitated the country since the
adoption of the Constitution, have sprung out of it.
Slavery made a protecting tariff, and then made nul
lification, and unmade a protecting tariff; and slavery
now is at the bottom of the Southern zeal against a
Bank of the United States, and in favor of the sub-

11
treasury, as the speeches of Southern men, and the
reports of the late Southern conventions at Augusta
and Richmond conclusively show. He who goes for
the abolition of slavery, would cut off the source out
of which conflicting questions of public policy grow.
These questions are subordinate to it in point of prin
ciple ; most of them arise out of it, and are the off
spring of it, in point of fact. I therefore know, and
¦can know, no party, when the rights of man, in the
question of slavery, come in competition with party.
In the approaching elections, my sympathies are
with the Whig party, and my vote will be with them
so far as the principles above set forth will permit it.
Grateful for the honor which the Whig party would
have conferred upon me,
I am, respectfully yours,
JOHN W. BROWNE.
After the removal of Mr. Browne's office to Boston,
where it remained until his death, he divided his resi
dence between Boston and Hingham, which town was
the birthplace of his wife, Miss Martha A. G. Lincohi,
to whom he was married in 1842. Their only child,
Laura, was born in 1843. To Hingham our friend
always retreated upon the approach of the summer
months; and the defight of his days was, there, in

12
the peaceful seclusion of that quiet and ancient town,
so full of rural beauty, to indulge his love of Nature
and her works and ways. A holiday, the remnant of
an afternoon, an hour at evening twilight or in the
early morning, — when either could be stolen from sleep
or withdrawn from care, — always found him absorbed
in the full happiness which he nowhere found so surely
as in the work of his garden, in his trees and flowers.
If through his father's ancestry he inherited the rig
orous integrity of the Puritan Elder, so from the
Italian blood which also mingled in his veins he
seemed to have derived the instinctive perception and
enjoyment of natural beauty so characteristic of the
people of Italy, and which no author ever appreciated
or delineated more finely than his townsman, Haw
thorne. Although not affecting general society, and avoiding
so much as he did public life, (under-estimating, in
deed, his own capacity and adaptation for social and
for public uses,) Mr. Browne was no recluse. He
was genial, cordial, and good-humored. He enjoyed
with the keenest relish his talk with those who had
anything to say beyond the commonplaces of conver
sation. He had a quick eye and ear for innocent
mirth, for dehcate wit, and for a good-natured joke,
although he was oftentimes singularly obtuse to coarse

13
displays of humor. He entered with the warmest
sympathy into the amusements and amenities of his
social circle, with the cordiality of one who loved the
happiness of all, and whose own heart was light with
innocence. Ill health, or a sensitive nature, or both,
occasionally gave him an air of weariness, and he
was never, perhaps, distinguished for that flow of
buoyant spirits which comes of animal vigor, great
hopefulness, and indifference to the fittle mishaps of
fife. StUl, he never spoke of any private grief, and
never obtruded on his friends any personal unhappi
ness, or pain of mind or body. His delicate and
considerate kindness forbade him to share his own
private burdens with others, but he strengthened him
self and lightened his load, as the noble unselfish
ness of good hearts always strives to do, by the
inspirations of sympathy with others, and love for
his neighbor.
For twelve or fourteen years our mutual habit of
residing at Hingham through the summer, and of being
fellow-passengers on the steamboat plying thither, night
and morning ; the pursuits which we had in common,
both professional and otherwise ; and the great attrac
tion I found in his character and the charms of his
refined and cultivated understanding; led me to an
intimacy of acquaintance with him such as I think

14
has never existed between myself and any other man.
It is this which has led me to speak of him now ;
and though those of us who were in the near pres
ence of his influence may never realize more keenly
than at this moment, when the turf is still green over
his head, how much his unselfish example, his un-
beclouded sense of Truth and Right, and his unam
bitious phUosophy, made him to us ; yet when I
reflect on the inadequacy of words to portray any
man, and on my own unfitness to comprehend, even
more to describe, this one, I feel that those who
knew him will scarcely recognize the original, and
that those who did not know him, will never learn
much of him, from what is written.
Perhaps the most prominent and striking feature
of his moral nature was his genuine honesty with
himself. If he was meek, yet he was terribly bold
when truth demanded. And his courage began at
home. He always accused and tried himself before
he denounced any other man. Hence flowed a
sense of freedom, — a self-emancipation, — which lib
erated him from the thousand bonds which hamper
men who are constrained by the necessities of pre
tence and sham. This also cleared his mental vision
and his perception of moral distinctions, — so that he
walked in the green pastures and beside the still

15
waters of a fife obedient to the precepts of a sincere
heart and a transparent intellect.
His conversation Avas the best I ever heard. It
was above pretension. It was not ornate, nor brill
iant, nor witty, nor learned. But it was the wisest
talk coming from the clearest insight, and the truest
purpose to know the Truth and to declare it simply.
It was not narrow nor one-sided ; but catholic, gen
erous, comprehensive. It was not barbed nor para
doxical, like that of most fine talkers, but it was
toned down to gentle harmony with all the good he
knew or believed, and was restrained by the just
respect he felt for every sincere conviction of others.
He was not a man of extensive reading, — not a
cormorant of books. He read much in good books,
not from curiosity, but for reflection ; and he knew
the best thought of the past and of his own time,
while for the great miscellaneous mass of literature
with which most of us divert ourselves, at least occa
sionally, he had no taste ; and he spent no time
upon it.
In religion he was bound by no formalities. He
was as free in his creed as the morning bird, but
he was guided by solemn convictions, was profoundly
devout, and lived in the constant sense of the provi
dence and love of God.

16
He was progressive in his practical philosophy, —
not destructive, but hopeful and constructive. He
coukl not excuse what he felt to be wrong, but he
knew how, for righteousness' sake, to be patient with
the wrongdoer. But when sometimes the pent-up en
ergies of his emotion burst from restraint under the
pressure of the sight of some unwonted or surprising
injustice, his words would fall like burning stones from
volcanic fires.
As a lawyer he was patient and faithful. His
learning was exact and symmetrical, and whenever the
solid ground of established principle could be reached,
his judgment was as sound as his logic was unerring.
In artificial rules, not founded on apparent reason,
he had little interest, and an adjudication of the law
against natural justice he regarded as an absolute
abomination. The domestic life of our friend it is not for any
one to penetrate. Those only who in losing him have
lost husband, father, or brother, can nearest realize
how genuine a man he was. In the sacred closeness
of these relations he found the most celestial happi
ness which a terrestrial experience can know ; and
to those of us who saw how tenderly he was devoted
to his kindred, it needed no witness-proof to give
assurance that the suggestion of suicide which sprang

17
from the sudden accident of his death, was ground
less — utterly. But it may afford some satisfaction
to other and remoter acquaintances to know in detaU
the circumstances of his removal from life, and there
fore I commend to the full perusal and confidence of
all, the following letter from his nephew, m which
they are carefully revieived : — " Salem, May 22, 1860.
Dear Me. Andrew, —
It is only at the earnest request of many friends
of my late uncle, Mr. John W. Browne, — yourself
among the number, — that I address this letter nom
inally to you, but really to all who knew him, for the
purpose of making an authoritative statement con^
cerning the manner of his death. His fife was so
secluded, his taste so dehcate, and his dread of
wounding the feelings of others so vivid, that it
would have been a great pain to him if he had fore
seen that it was to become a matter of pubfic specu
lation how he died ; and the inclination of his relar
tives has thus far been to suffer in sUence the cruel
imputation which was cast upon his memory by the
pubfic prints, consoled by their own complete con
sciousness that the manner of his death must have
been consistent with the purity of his life, whatever
3

18
rumors might exist to the contrary. But they never
theless assigned to me the painful labor of investi
gating to its source the report that his end was
voluntary, and I have done so impartially. I am
now assured by those whose judgment I respect, that
it has become a duty to my uncle's family to clear
away any suspicion which may possibly remain in any
mind that his death was not accidental, and I there
fore make the following statement, reluctantly yield
ing my disposition to their desire.
The result of my investigation is, that there is
not a single circumstance to justify the inference of
suicide. On the morning of Tuesday, May 1, Mr.
Browne left Boston in order to argue in the Probate
Court at Middleborough a case which required the
attendance of three witnesses, — brothers. One of
them accompanied him. The others, who resided at
Hingham, were to join him at the junction of the
Old Colony and South Shore railroads, in Braintree.
But only one of these two was present, and he stated
that his brother was confined to his bed by sickness.
Mr. Browne said at once that it would be impossi
ble to adjust the business unless all three witnesses
should be present. The party proceeded to Stough
ton, where they met the up-train. From Stoughton
one witness continued on to Middleborough, to ar-

19
range for a postponement of the case, whUe Mr.
Browne and the witness who had accompanied him
from Boston, started upon their return to the city.
At Braintree, their train stopped for the engine to
be suppfied with water; and several passengers got
out there, and walked upon the platform. There was
less delay than had been expected, and the conductor
called suddenly to everybody to return to the cars.
In the bustle, Mr. Browne was separated from his
companion. The latter regained his seat, but the
seat which Mr. Browne had occupied was taken by
a stranger, and when the train started he was stand
ing, with two or three other persons, outside the door
upon the platform of the car. These others soon
retired into the car, but he, refraining (with a
sensitive modesty which no friend can faU to recog
nize) from claimuig his seat, remained outside, pre
ferring, if he must stand, to stand in clean air,
rather than in the foul atmosphere within. The
¦wind was blowing freshly. He was standing with
one foot resting upon the upper step, the other
upon the platform. He was seen to raise his hand
as if to secure his hat from the breeze, and at the
same instant was swung off by the sudden turn of
the train around a sharp curve. The eye-witnesses
of the event inform me that they saw all that any

20
one could have seen, and that there was not a ges
ture, a word, or a look, which indicated suicide. The
position of the body and of the hat, after falfing, and
the condition of the body, confirm the fact that there
was no physical preparation for a leap from the car.
Mr. Browne's companion recollects nothing that was
not natural and cheerful in his conversation and de
meanor all the morning. The report that the death
was voluntary, which appeared in the evening papers
of that day, was based on information furnished by a
person whose name I withhold only from considera
tion for his feelings, when in this connection I insert
the foUowing note, which was signed by him several
days since : — "Boston, May 11, 1860.
" At the request of Mr. Albert G. Browne, Jr.,
I state for the information of the friends of Mr.
John W. Browne, that I gave to the evening news
papers of May 1st the information which was the
basis of their articles concerning Mr. Browne's death ;
but that I did not then, nor do I now know, nor
have I heard anything which induces me to believe,
that his death was not produced by an accidental fall
from the platform of the car. Any intimation which
I may have given that the act was suicidal, was the

21
inconsiderate result of the impression of the moment,
which subsequent reflection convinces me was errone
ous, and which I sincerely regret."
Among my uncle's papers, not a line was found to
indicate an intention of suicide ; the condition of his
business repels any such assumption ; there was noth
ing in his pecuniary circumstances to induce such a
deed ; and those of us who enjoyed his confidence
are well aware how sacred a trust he considered life
to be. By a singular chance, his last few days were
passed among his kindred in this old and peaceful
town, in a brief vacation from the cares of his pro
fession. Here, after a long interval of absence, he
had been refreshing his remembrance of the scenes
of his young fife and early professional study. It
seemed as if- Providence in mercy had led him back
to the old homestead, ia order that his last days might
be fiUed with no other than the pleasant recollections
of a time when he knew no sorrows or anxieties but
those of a chUd. He had returned to his oflice, re
freshed and reinvigorated, only on the morning before
that which was his last.
I beheve that there is nothing now left to me to
say, except to express a hope that never may another
circle of famUy and friends be cut to the heart as

22
this has been, by a report pubfished by the news
papers, with so fittle inquiry as to its truth, or con
sideration for the feelings of those whom it might
wound. Yours sincerely, A. G. BROWNE, Jr.
One circumstance not referred to in this letter, may
weU be mentioned. For many weeks Mr. Browne's
feeble health had been attended by faintness and diz
ziness as one of its symptoms. How far this in his
then weak condition may have affected him and con
spired to cause his fall and death, is not to be known,
although the fact is not to be forgotten in its connec
tion. But I will not, — and cannot, — seem to apolo
gize to man for the providence of God.
A noble and manly life has closed on earth. Its last
few days were more than usually serene and cheerful";
and the prevaUing character of their thoughts and as
pirations is beautifully portrayed in the foUowing lines,*
found in his pocket-book after his death. Less than
a week before, while walking with their author over
the pasture-lands around his native town, he had re
peated them with a fervor and pathos which wiU live
in the hearer's memory forever.
* From " Essays and Poems by Jones Very," Boston, 1839, page 175.

23
Wilt .Thou not visit me ?
The plant beside me feels thy gentle dew ;
And every blade of grass I see
From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.
Wilt Thou not visit me ?
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone ;
And every hill and tree
Lend but one voice, the voice of thee alone.
Come, for I need thy love
More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain ;
Come, gently as thy holy dove,
And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again.
I will not hide from them
When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath,
But bow with leafy stem,
And strengthened, follow on thy chosen path.
Yes, Thou wilt visit me ;
Nor plant nor tree thine eye delight so well
As when from sin set free
My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell.

SERMON

PREACHED AT THE THIRD CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, HINGHAM,
MAT 6, 1860, (the SUNDAY AITTER THE DEATH OP
JOHN W. BROWNE,)

CHARLES C. SHACKFORD.

Hingham, May 8, 1860.
Dear Sir, —
The undersigned, having listened with great satisfaction to the
sermon preached to the Third Congregational Society in Hing-
liam, on Sunday last, in which you so faithfully delineated the
character of John W. Browne, would respectfully request a copy
for publication, confidently believing that all who knew him will
be glad to possess so just a tribute to his memory.
We remain, with great regard.
Your obedient servants,
Benjamin Lincoln,

Rev. C. C. Shackford.

Daniel Thaxter.

Lynn, May 11, 1860.
Dear Sirs, —
The sermon is at the disposal of the friends of our common
friend. It is not " a delineation of his character,'' but a pre
sentation of such impressions of his life as seemed appropri
ate to the place, time, and occasion. The special individual
traits of personal character which so endeared him to his family
and friends, I did not feel at liberty to dwell upon. His intellec
tual and social qualities I have not spoken of. I consider the dis
course wholly inadequate as "a delineation of character,'' but I
give it as " a tribute to the memory " of oue whom to have known
I consider one of the chief blessings of my life. It is for those
who have known and loved him, and not for others.
Very truly yours,
C. C. Shackford.
Messrs. Lincoln and Thaxter.

SERMON.

HE BEING DEAD, TET SPBAKETH. — Heh. Xl : 4.
There is no voice which speaks fike that which
comes to us after the earthly voice has ceased. There
is no footprint whose impress can be fully determined,
untU after the foot has been removed from the sands
of time. The infant, uttering but its first feeble cry,
and then passing away, has become one among the
countless forces of spiritual being in the universe of
God. How penetrating this voice is, and how deeply
imprinted this footprint, many a parent's heart can
testify. The earth is thenceforward a different place,
and Ufe wears a different hue. A change has been
¦wrought in the whole world of nature, and in all its
sights and sounds. The seasons bear another message
to the soul than before, for there is mingled with
them that plaintive cry, that spiritual music which
breathes of trust, resignation, and hope.

28
Every human life has its voice that speaks in most
impressive utterance as death gathers into one tone
its peculiar teachings. As we hurry on together, im
mersed in our various objects of interest, we reflect
little upon the kind of influence which our friends
exert upon ourselves and others. When they are
gone, we cannot but listen to their voice, and strive
to interpret their utterance. It forces itself upon us
by the void which it makes in aU our thought. We
miss that tone in proportion to its purity and its power.
Blessed is that life which leaves an impress deep
in the tablets of loving hearts ; in the memory of
nearest friends ; in the thoughts, aspirations, and
hopes of those who have communed with it from day
to day upon the earth. For this fife stiU speaks from
the upper sphere ; it mingles with increased power in
all the future ; it makes the invisible world a reaUty
in that spiritual atmosphere which it brings, and in
that halo of glory which it sheds around.
Often when we chide ourselves for too keen a re
membrance of the departed, this remembrance is but
the fulness of impression made by the life whose
teachings Death has sealed with his ineffaceable signet,
and has thus given to them the sacred power which
was their due. We cannot but Usten ia order to
catch, if it be possible, that tone which seems so

29
much more beautiful and inspiring than we shall ever
hear 'again. We caimot but dwell upon the echoes
of that footstep which faUs upon the soul with such
a sense of rhythmic power. The soul does well to
keep its choicest memories green. It does well,
amidst the on-sweeping crowd of life's duties, trials,
and solicitudes, as new scenes open, as other horizons
bound the vision, and other interests awaken the
heart, to fisten to the spiritual voice of him whom
we caU dead, but who " yet speaketh." There is
often no living memory where there is the most
hopeless sadness, and no sorrowful sickness of heart
where there is the most intense recollection of the
departed. There may be, too, no forgetfulness, where
there is no distinct and definite shaping to the thought
of that indi-vidual Ufe which has ceased to manifest
itself in a mortal form. The life may intermingle
¦with aU the spirit's loves, joys, and aspirations ; its
teachings may come, not in lessons of words, but, as
a strain of music, blend so softly with every internal
affection, that we do not consciously recognize its
presence. The real quafity of a Ufe is not perceived, for the
most part, while the senses take cognizance of it as
weU as the spirit. The footprint can be measured
only after the foot is -withdrawn. The uifluence ex-

30
erted by each one is not to be weighed, except as
that influence is no longer directly felt. It then
comes over us with a gradually accumulating power.
It grows upon the imaginative soul from day to day,
and we learn to appreciate its real beauty, its char
acteristics of harmony, of truth, of expressiveness
and power, as we grow into the appreciation of some
work of art. It holds, subdues, and purifies our
whole interior being. The voice of the departed
speaks in tones of a more thrilling and diviner music
than the voice of the fiving. Not untU they are gone
from the atmosphere of earth, does the fuU power of
an atmosphere of spirit envelop the loving and self-
sacrificing parent, the courageous martyr to the truth,
the heroic and saintly doers of justice ' and of right.
Their Uves become, after their departure, an inheri
tance to the world. And thus the benignant Prov
idence makes out of death a spiritual teacher, and
buUds up a glorious form of immortal power out of
the pallid form of perishing dust.
The earnest writer to the Hebrews, as he felt him
self surrounded by the cloud of ¦witnesses, — dweUers
ia the upper sphere, — heard brave words of encour
agement, tones of exhortation to steadfastness and
persistent truth. And this cloud envelops us now.
Who cannot hear, if he wiU Usten, voices speaking

31
from it to-day — of some innocent cluld with smile of
ineffable love ; of some revered parent with kindly,
cheering, and, perhaps, reproving tone of undymg
affection ; of some dear friend of the heart, giving
blessed counsel and hope, calming the fevered pulse
and nerving to fresh endeavor? It comes fike dew
to the withering grass, fike the morning breeze upon
the heated brow. The spiritual is no longer a vague
and unsubstantial dream. It becomes near and real.
As day after day adds to the number of those who
speak to us from its realm of mysterious power, it
ceases to be that far-off and unknown shore ; it is
peopled vfith those fiving and beloved ones who have
been the joy of our life, and whom we can think
upon only as the possessors of a yet fuller measure
of pure affection, and of a more widely expanding
sphere of power to act and to bless. That upper
world is no longer a land of shadows and of death.
There are members of our own household, and our
hopes, joys, and loves are entwined with theirs ;
saintly and revered ones are there whose affection
is inwoven ¦with each fibre df our being ; lovers of
truth, doers of good, toilers with the hand, the heart,
and the brain, for universal ends which were not
Umited by the world of time, and which its loss can
not diminish or take away. Those lives, we feel,

32
must flow on " without break or flaw ; " they make
real to us the risen life of the spirit ; they make the
future world the encompassing and hallowing atmos
phere of the present, passing scene of time.
This speech we hear by faith, and it never " can
be proved." The voice comes to the inward ear as
does the voice which speaks of the existence of God.
His presence is not recognized by outward eye or
outward ear. Faith only can bring Him withui the
soul's firmament. He seems to be removed from the
perception of man's lower faculties of sense, but it is
in order that man may grow iato the higher and
more glorious life of faith. Only when the form of
Jesus was ¦withdrawn from the earthly eye of his
foUowers, were their spiritual faculties unlocked and
their ianer perceptions made clear ; then they saw
him in the heavenly glory; then he was to them no
longer a suffering man, weary, fainting, dying, but
the one glorified life at the right hand of God.
Faith is better than sight, for it reveals that which
was hidden by the veU of the sense. The departed
comes as a spiritual presence ¦vN'ith an increased power
to make pure and strong.
We hear a voice speaking to-day. With what
solemn and reproving tone does it rebuke all un
meaning eulogy! But there are impressions left by

33
this footstep that has passed on, which even our
friend, so modest in his own self-estimate, and so
severe in his own judgment of truth when applied
to himself, would not forbid to be read off as lessons
for our guidance and our consolation. We cannot
turn away and heedlessly neglect this legacy of a
life. There can be no gift like that of a life, con
scientious, loving, devoted to spiritual uses, and uni
versal, ideal ends. The outward gifts of fortune are
nothing compared with this. Without this, the wide
spread reputation, and extended, superficial influence,
are but a hoUow mockery and empty sound. A
faithful fife is a soUd and perpetual legacy of good,
which cannot be wasted or spent. It accumulates
¦with the passing moments, and multipUes itself in
the fleetuig forms of the onward-moving generations.
It is this great legacy that we have received.
Each step was taken ¦with a fearful sense of respon
sibUity, and with an earnest care that fills us now
¦with a trembling wonder, and makes our own Uves
seem aU unworthy and fuU of trifles light as the
bubble that floats and glistens for a moment with
rainbow hues, and then breaks into nothingness. The
prizes of ambition, of wealth, of worldly influence,
were before him withia easy grasp, but he turned
away from them aU, that he might lay hold upon

34
that real possession, — character. To be true ; to
have everything rest upon a foundation of everlasting
rock ; to let all go but genuine virtues, and to ex
press only that which was actually within, was his
single aim. It was for him to buUd up the internal
kingdom ; to be honest in every thought ; to be pure
in every purpose ; to be real and whole in every
deed, and not to seek for esteem, or learning, or
riches, or influence, or power. He could have swayed
masses of men by his soaring thought, his sharp in
vective, his eloquent appeal ; he could have addressed
juries with success, for he knew men's motives and
sounded each man's depth; he knew the weaknesses
of his fellows, and by what passions and what influ
ences they were swayed; but he would not do this
and be false to himself. It was for him to guard the
issues of his life ; and to be a true man was, in his
conviction, more than to be an effective speaker.
It was real being that he sought, and not external
effect. To him it seemed that he must resign the
apparent, in order to secure the real, success. He
could not reconcile them for himself, but he did not
judge others, or make a rule for others in this re
spect. So must it be for his own real growth, but
to others there might be a different method. To his
own master each one standeth or faUeth. He stood.

35
His own conviction of what was right for him was
unalterably adhered to. He saw straight through
those veUs of sophistry by which so many delude
themselves, shading from the clear brightness of the
aU-reveaUng Ught their infidefities and their weak
nesses, and excusmg their conformities to pretentious
appearances and artificial methods of thought and life.
Yet so tender were his compassions for natural, hu
man frailties and sins; so feminine were his affections
and sympathies, that confidence flowed out to him as
naturaUy as the exhalations, and vapors of earth seek
the upper firmament, where the warm, outshining sun
beams receive and welcome them. That only which
was artificial, conventional, and untrue, and yet which
claimed for itself superior sanctity and worth, closed
itself at his presence, and removed itself from his
penetrating gaze. It shrunk, as the birds of the
night, from the outstreaming rays of the daylight.
But to him, his own sense of right and vision of
truth, his own perception of universal, impersonal
principle, was too sacred a thing to be tampered with
or repressed. He felt that this higher was a divine
inspiration, a " God inning in the flesh," which was
to be treated reverently as a guest to whom he was
to bring, with trembling haste, and even awe, aU that
was his.

36
He measured himself by no external standard, for
the majestic glory of an ideal form of beauty, good
ness, justice, and truth confronted him whUe yet
upon the threshold of life, and in its presence all
the honors, gauds, and shining prizes of outward
and lower respect, were dimmed and stripped of their
shining array, and he felt that they could not meet
the real wants of his being. To him Ufe was a
battle, an internecine contest of world against the
soul. Never could he say, " Soul, thou canst now
take thine ease, for thou hast laid up much treasure,
thy barns are overflowing, thy possessions are enough,
thy riches are abundant, now rejoice in thy plenty."
He wanted Virtue herself and not virtues ; a love of
truth, pure and unerring in its instinctive attractions,
and not truths outside of him, however respected by
other minds. He wanted righteousness itself, not a
superinduced form of excellence, however perfect in
its contour of propriety and worth.
To him Ufe was an earnest struggle to conquer
every partial and selfish tendency of evU, every nat
ural impulse which warred agamst the beauty and
power of the spirit. He entered into the wilderness,
and he heard there, unterrified, the howling of the
wUd beasts of the desert; he bore, unflinching, the
scorching sun, and breasted the driving storm. Day

37
and night was he in the deep, and he felt the bil
lows rushing and swelling over him, but he trusted,
and waited, and struggled stUl, for he knew in whom
and in what he beUeved. He turned away from ap
pearance to reaUty ; he welcomed obscurity, loneliness,
suffering, and sacrifice. He felt the worth of the soul,
of a Uving, internal power of discernment, of unswerv
ing fideUty to eternal and divine laws.
To him it would have seemed but an utter loss,
to have gained aU external things,* and, in the process,
to have lost the soul to appreciate goodness and to
love the right ; the soul to reverence and to hope ;
the soul to endure and to grow stronger by opposition
and defeat, and^ to become more vigorous and self-
sustaining ¦with the faUure of outward support; the
soul to adore an ideal beauty, to seek after an in
finite reality, to beUeve in an absolute truth, and to
trust in a perfect love. No man, ambitious for exter
nal ends, no one stimulated by selfish and personal
desires, ever toiled, planned, and sacrificed for the
attainment of a long-craved earthly success, with
more earnest purpose and with a more single aim,
than he for the perfection of character and the ful
filment of his own ideal of a pure, manly, and well-
balanced spiritual exceUence.
His object was to attain, as a realized status of

38
the inner being, that which others are content to
dream of, and to apprehend only as casual gleammgs,
or indulge in as passing aspirations. His life, as ab
stemious and simple as a chUd's, was -without the
pride of ascetic narrowness; and, exacting as the
most solitary hermit towards himself, he was most
genial in his disposition, and most affectionate in the
whole tone of his temper and his heart. If he was
so self-centred, and of so regulated and uniform a
method of life, it was only because he had the power
to rein ui the fiery steeds of impulse and passion.
There was a volcanic nature which he " kept under ; "
there were forces which he ruled as with a rod of iron.
He was penetrated through and through with the
conviction of the all-encompassing spiritual laws, and
felt that in the actual sphere in which he was, was
the place for him ; that only a change in himself,
an ever-unfolding growth, could bring him real good ;
that there was no external sphere, in the farthest
heights, or in the remotest boundaries, which could
bring to him the force, or help, or remedy, which he
did not carry with him in his own internal state. All
life seemed to him pervaded by the same essential
principles, and every province of it to furnish the
same battle-field wherein should struggle sense and
faith ; time and eternity ; matter and spirit ; seeming

39
good and actual fidefity ; acceptance of present, pass
ing, superficial desire, and renouncement of it for a
higher and more universal benefit.
It was a noble sadness that he felt, for it was the
sadness of a struggUng soul that sometimes found it
self in the shadow of a great sunUght ; that watched
eagerly by the bedside of some feverish impulse, or
some aspiration, beaten back upon the heart, or some
consuming anguish of painful sorrow at infirmity, or
some deep cry for justice and for right, — watched
for the streak of Ught that should da-wn upon the
eastern sky, and redden the cold, dark mountain-
top, heralding the day. It was a sadness of sym
pathy with men, to see them as
" They passed him by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
Dim ghosts of men, that hover to aud fro,
Hugging their bodies round them, like their shrouds,
Wherein their souls were buried long ago ;
Who trampled on their youth and faith and love,
Who cast their hope of human-kind away.
With heaven's clear messages who madly strove,
And conquered ; and their spirits turned to clay.''
To him the humblest Ufe and lowliest condition
stretched out into infinity ; it had the same overarch
ing heavens for its roof, and the same sun for its
Ught, and the same sweet ministries of love for its

40
companions, as the grandest and highest of earthly
environments. He saw a greater than world-conqueror
in him who should overcome the hosts of evU -within
his own breast, — rebel passions and selfish lusts ; a
greater than leader of armies in him who should lead
on, to the sound of a triumphant choral burst of joy,
the hours of useful toU, and ministration to human
needs ; a greater than artist portraying the beautiful
in word, or stone, or color ia him who should possess
those internal quaUties of love and purity, of holiness
and inner serenity of soul, of aspiring faith and meek
resignation, whose external artistic representation alone
is accounted so great a glory ; a greater than orator
to awaken the applause of shouting multitudes, in him
who should, by single-mindedness and chUdUke simplic
ity of heart, possess that enthusiasm for high, noble,
and patriotic ends, through appeal to which the speaker
wins his renown.
As the crowned procession filed along in triumphal
march, he asked the warrior for his soul, and weighed
him in the balance let down from heaven. He asked
the martyr, as the burning flame curled and hissed
about his funeral pile, for a purer flame of humble
and holy love. He asked of the author and the
artist, not the list of his works, not the catalogue of
his written books, but the spirit in which he wrought,

41
the fidelity to conscience, to the inspirations of beauty
and truth, to the pure and deathless affections of the
heart. As I trace the imprint of this Ufe which has now
been completed, and which, like aU others, can alone
be rightly measured when the foot itself has been re
moved, I behold a human soul striving so to Uve, that
the all-surrounding nature, in which it dwelt, should
reveal its inner spirit of beauty and wisdom, and be
a creative power within ; that the common pursuits
and famUiar relations of daily existence should be per
vaded by eternal laws ; that day and night, and house
and field, should be transfigured in the brightness of
a heavenly and spiritual sphere ; that the success of
personal ends should seem but a fittle thing compared
with that work which may be accomplished within,
and that resultant character which may be -wrought
out by their failure, if failure should come at last.
And what an influence flows from such a life ! He
is deceived by the mere outside show, who believes
that no influence is exerted if it cannot be discerned
in visible streams upon the surface of existence. The
real power of spirit over spirit is always in proportion
to the depth, the purity, the universaUty, of the force.
Often because it is not direct and outward, it ac
quires a more concentrated iafluence, and when it

42
becomes visible, appears upon the surface in some
broad and deep river, which waters a whole conti
nent and bears a nation's commerce upon its flow-
uig stream. The real force of a Ufe is to be meas
ured by the depth of influence in individual souls.
To have cheered and upheld wavering faith ; to have
become a conscience and a standard of highest ap
peal ; to have received spiritual confessions and given
the helpful, deciding, and inspiring word ; to have
quickened the sense of right, the love of truth, and
the sympathy with the wronged and the oppressed;
to have brought home to others the reaUty of un
seen laws and everlasting principles of Providential
order and discipline in Ufe ; to have become mingled
with the best hopes, the purest aspirations, and ho-
fiest memories of many hearts ; to have been an
example of integrity of being, of unresting effort
for higher spiritual attainment ; to have made the
veil which separates between this sphere and the
future, between material and spiritual existence, to
seem but a thin and almost transparent film ; — this
is the real influence of that life which has now ceased
on earth ; this is the highest, truest, and grandest
success. We say, generally, of a life ended here, that its
work is done ; but to the spiritual eye that deeper

43
work has but just begun. It is hidden, indeed, but
potent and real. It muigles, an unseen power, in the
air and sunlight, stilling the tumult of grief and pas
sion, making sacred the earth, and making real the
heaven. And there is no one who has been a sharer
in the influences of this life, no one who has felt its
magnetic touch, who wiU not say, as memory is
stirred within, —
" Whatever way my days decline,
I felt and feel, though left alone.
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine.
" And so my passion hath not swerved
To works of weakness, but I find
An image comforting the mind.
And in my grief a strength reserved.
" Far off thou art, but ever nigh ;
I have thee still, and I rejoice ;
I prosper, circled with thy voice ;
I shall not lose thee though I die."
Lost ! gone ! dead ! It is by faith, by spiritual sym
pathy, that these words must be clothed -with a new
meaning. The outward form is removed, but only to
make more real the inner Ufe, and reveal to us more
clearly the ideal glory. This is more truly the being

44
whom we loved than that which the eye of sense
discerned. It is the vision made blunt by habitual
routine, or blurred by Ufe's trivial show, that mis
takes, that underrates, that judges falsely. Only
when the veU of the outward is rent asunder do we
see character in its true light, and estimate aright
the worth, and beauty, and spiritual force that dwelt
¦within. Then we know what greatness is in truth,
what joy is in faithfulness, what beauty is in love,
what infinite glory in the aspirations and struggles of
a manly and upright soul.
It is the recognition of these qualities which brings
with it the very atmosphere of immortality. It puts
death beneath the feet as but one circumstance in
the ever-advancing life of the spirit; it enfolds all
souls in one divine, overarching sphere of love, and
touches the springs of undying hope. Thee, freed
spirit ! we shaU see again. Taught by thee, we wUl
fisten to the divine voice ; we wUl bid sorrow and
doubt to end, and be reborn in the aspiration after
truth and beauty, in the communion with aU good
ness, in the hope and joy of the immortal life. Thee,
the places here that have kno^wn, shall know no more
forever ; but the hearts upon which thou hast smUed
shaU bless thy memory, and the souls which thou hast
quickened to a higher ideal, shall enshrine, as a sacred

45
treasure, thy life of unresting endeavor, and self-for
getting, humble, consecrated toU. May we be found
worthy to meet thee again. Around thee, and around
us all, is the same all-enfolding arm of love. That love,
— so far-reaching is its sweep, and so universal are its
ends, — we shall seek in vain to know here in all its
purposes and all its methods of hidden wisdom ; but
we can be sure of this, that love does bless aU souls in
the many mansions throughout all spheres of being ;
that it shaU blend the darkest shadow with the glow
ing Ught, and make the landscape more beautiful for
the cloud that hides, for a moment, the golden sun ;
that darkness and sorrow, that suffering and death,
are but one part of a blessed plan of perfect Wisdom
and perfect Love.

AN EXTRACT

SERMON
PREACHED AT THE NORTH CHURCH, IN SALEM, .TUNE 3, 1860,
BY
EDMUND B. WILLSON.

AN EXTRACT FROM A SERMON.

* * * And there is another one, whose going
forth from this land of shadows to the realities of the
unseen but endless Ufe, connects itself in my thoughts
¦with that I have just referred to.* I do not know
how -widely, or weU, he was known in this community ;
but he must have been very weU known to many of
you, intimately to some, no doubt, for this, I am told,
was his native place and early home. I refer to Mr.
John W. Bro^wne. I never met him but once, and
that was some years ago. I had never previously
heard of him. And yet, in a company of persons,
including several of remarkable conversational talent,
he left the strongest impression of them all upon my
mind ; and though the impression which he made by
his inteUigence, his broad, and just, and high thought,
was enough to make him eminent even ia that so-
* The death of Eev. Theodore Parker.
7

50
ciety ; yet it was not for his intellectual qualities that
I chiefly minded him, and have remembered him. It
was for the elevated moral tone of his talk that he
called forth my warmest respect and largest admira
tion. The high honor which he paid to truth and
justice, the noble allegiance he showed to the cardinal
principles of Christian righteousness, his unobtrusive,
but clear and decided refusal to allow the vafidity of
the common apologies for a professional advocacy of
causes sincerely believed to be based on no principle
of justice ; and much more besides, which I heard
from him that evening, gave him a place in my mem
ory and in my respect, which cannot easily be lost.
And when I read of the catastrophe by which his
earthly Ufe was so instantly cut short, I felt that
whUe earth had one brave, manly heart less beating
here in sympathy with goodness and truth, and in
communion with God and his chUdren, there was
added one to the bright throng of advanced immortals
who climb the everlasting heights of knowledge and
love.

A RESOLUTION

NEW ENGIiAND ANTI-SLAVERY CONVENTION;

EXTRACT FROM THE SPEECH

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

RESOLUTION AND EXTRACT.

In the New England Anti-Slavery Convention at
Boston, May 31, 1860, the foUowing resolution was
adopted ; after presentmg which, Mr. WendeU PhilUps
made the remarks which are subjoined: —
Resolved, That in the death of our beloved friend and fellow-
laborer, John W. Browne, the anti-slavery cause has lost a most
uncompromising and devoted friend — one who gave to it the aid
of strong original powers and the most liberal culture ; the ex
ample of a life of rare simphcity, and of the most scrupulous and
delicate conscientiousness — a spirit of self-sacrifice, and a rigid
adherence to absolute right at every cost — a peculiar sweetness
and openness of conduct, which won the attention and regard of
those who most hated his opinions, and a hand only too generous
inUavishing aid on every applicant ; in him, the cause of woman,
of the poor, the intemperate, the imprisoned, and of the slave, lost
a ripe intellect, a brave, loving, and religious spirit, a vigilant and
untiring friend, — one who spared neither time, money, nor effort,
and in the path of duty asked no counsel of expediency, met
cheerfully every sacrifice, paused at no peril, and feared not the
face of man.

54

Mr. Chaikman, — You wiU not, of course, expect
me, no one woidd be expected, to analyze a near
friend ui the very hour he dies. That would be a
cold heart, fit only for a critic, who, in the very hour
that he lost one who had made a large share of his
fife, could hold him off, and take all his separate quaU
ties to pieces, and paint them in words. We are too
near, we love too much, to perform such an office to
each other. Now, at least, aU we can do is to caU
up some few prominent traits that have been forced
upon our observation as we walked side by side with
those who have worked and lived with us.
Very few of you knew that most efficient friend
named in the resolution I have read ; yet, though
hidden, he was no sHght or trivial servant to the
great cause. The purest of aU human hearts, — but
not, as is sometimes the case ¦with that rare and
chUdUke simpUcity, a merely negative character ; for
he graduated at Harvard in the same class, and was
linked as a room-mate, and nearest and most intimate
friend, ¦with one whose inteUect is the admiration of
miUions — our Senator, Mr. Sumner ; and he was
thought by maay, indeed by most, of those who stood
at the goal of collegiate reputation, the most original
and ablest inteUect which that class gave to the world.

55
In the bloom of youth, in the freshness of a rare suc
cess ia his profession, he placed himself on this plat
form in the mob years of the anti-slavery enterprise,
when to speak an anti-slavery word was starvation,
when to hold up an anti-slavery banner was poUtical
suicide. Yet, the most promising lawyer in the county
of Essex, dowered with the love of the Whig party of
that county, he came to this platform with that un
conscious fidelity to truth which is incapable of asking
first what is expedient. I remember well what checked
his poUtical advancement, and it suggests one of the
great comforts in this Ufe of a reformer. After aU
the seeming sacrifices (for they are only seeming)
and the hard struggles which are said to mark our
fives, we are the happiest of the human race, for God
^ves us this, the greatest of all rewards : — as we
move onward, society shapes itself according to our
ideas ; we see about us the growing proof, the ever
fresh and green evidence that we were right ten years
before. Conservatism creeps on, discontented, distrust
ful, timid, thinking that when you have swept away
the cobwebs the roof is coming down, sighing for the
good old times, anxious to hide in its grave from the
ruin and wickedness it sees aU about; but Reform
waUiS onward, its buoyant forehead fit with the twi
light of the coming day, and crying, — "AU haU !

56
my brother ! I saw you in my dreams ! Thank God
that he gave me life long enough to see you set joc-
imd foot on the misty mountain-tops of the morrow ! "
Now, this brave, dear brother, when he stood the pet
of Essex, was asked, as the condition of another step
of political advancement, at the very threshold of his
life, hardly graduated from coUege — "WUl you take
the Senatorship, and when there, wiU you pledge your
self to vote for Daniel Webster ? " " Never ! " " Then
be no longer officer of ours." To-day, ia sadness,
with veUed face, every heart in Massachusetts ac
knowledges that the step which that young man re
buked by refusing to pledge himself in advance to its
support, was a fatal mistake in the great statesman of
New England. That instinctive sense of right which,
standing alone on life's threshold, and at the cost of
being thought a fanatic and a madman, threw away
ambition at the bidding of duty, — Massachusetts puts
her seal upon it to-day, and says, "Would to God
that we had been as frank, and done as much, and
turned away the bitter years which closed the life of
our great, our favorite statesman ! "
Leaving poUtics, Mr. Browne, -with his characteristic
simplicity of character and unconsciousness of talent,
deemed himself unfit for the task which others were
ready to press upon him. He said to me once, I re-

57
member, when I urged him to come to this platform,
and let us hear again the voice which had delighted us
so often, " I ought not to be there ; there is nothing
in me worthy to stand there ; I am shamed away from
such a post." Yet the best judge in New England
called him " the most pregnant talker he ever met."
And never was a demand, of whatever character,
made upon him, to which he did not respond with an
alacrity and efficiency which showed how mistaken was
his own judgment, and how much wiser he would
have been to have yielded to our entreaties, and have
led where he only consented to foUow.
You who remember him so calm, self-poised, and
stiU in manner, speaking in measured words, one by
one, saw only half his nature. By constitution, his
blood was lava, and his soul thundered and light
ened at the sight of wrong, especially at any meanly
base act. Indeed, " thunder and Ughtning " was the
pet name he bore among his classmates. But, side
by side with this volcano, stood, sleepless and watch
ful, the most deUcate and scrupulous conscientious
ness, — too deUcate, perhaps, for daUy Ufe. When
plunged, therefore, into our fierce agitation, he doubted
whether he was justified in the hot moments and floods
of feeUng which such contention let loose on his spirit.
It seemed to him his duty, the best part and purest.

58
to keep the waters of his Ufe calm and stiU beneath
the stars that looked into their depths. Such con
viction, however, never made him either an idler or
a neutral. His flag was naUed to the mast — no man
ever mistook his position. Beneath that flag was so
high-souled and transparent a life that none could
hate or doubt the bearer. His professional skiU, the
very best our Bar possessed, was freely given to
every poor man. Never rich, his hand was ever
open. Nowhere did he fear the face of man; and,
as much as our nature can, he surely kept a con
science void of offence towards his feUows, and a soul
pure in the sight of God. Patient of labor, in that
little heeded and hidden toil so indispensable to every
reform he was ever ready. Many of us stood here
dowered -with the result of his toU ; many of us
brought to you his ripe thoughts, which his own lip
and his own life would have given so much better ;
and when he feU, I, for one, felt lonelier and weaker
in my place ia this world and its battle. There are
very few men so true to friendship, so loyal, so un
tiring, that you feel, in closing your eyes, " I leave
one behind me who wiU see that over my grave no
maUcious Ue goes unrebuked, and that justice is done
to my intentions." I always felt that if Providence
should take me first, there was a voice and a hand

59
which thirty years of tried and stanch friendship
would place as a shelter over my memory. Would
to God I could do him to-day, half the justice that
his sword would have leapt from its scabbard to do
for me !

REMARKS

JAMES DANA,

AT A MEETING OF THE CLASS OF 18.30.

And doubtless unto thee is given
A life that bears immortal fruit
In such great offices as suit
The full-grown energies of heaven.
But thou and I have shaken hands
Till growing winters lay me low ;
My paths are in the fields I know.
And thine in undiscovered lands. TEHNYSON.

REMARKS

On the evening of Commencement Day, July 18,
1860, after the conclusion of the exercises at Cam
bridge, a meetuig of the class of 1830, of which Mr.
Browne was a member, was held at the Tremont
House, in Boston, when Mr. Dana made the sub
joined remarks : —
I trust that some of the class wiU give us infor
mation of the Ufe of our late classmate, and esteemed
and lamented friend, Browne.
You recoUect him in coUege as acknowledged to be
one of the ablest and most talented of our number.
You recoUect the decision which marked his charac
ter ; his courage and daring ; his manly bearing ; his
high sense of honor, and his impetuous temperament;
his freedom from boyish tricks, or conduct unbecom
ing a gentleman. You recollect his recitations and
his beautiful rendering of the classics. An eamest

64
spirit was infused into all he said or did. He gradu
ated, as you know, in rank very near to our other
departed friend who received the highest honors of
the class.*
He did not have many intimate associates, for he
then comprehended the true aims of life, and was a
diligent general student, as weU as faithful in the
college course of study. Perhaps he was not popular
— in the college sense of the word ; but aU who
knew him respected him. During one of our vacar
tions he taught school in my native town of Groton,
and then I frequently had the pleasure of meeting
him at my father's house. He told me that he found
teaching a viUage school anything but congenial.
After we graduated, I did not meet him untU he had
commenced the practice of law in the eastern part of
the city of Lynn, ia what is known as the Quaker
VUlage, where he possessed the confidence and es
teem of that community. He soon assumed a more
than respectable position at the bar, and his friends
had reason to anticipate for him a briUiant profes
sional career ; but after a few years I heard that he
had essentially changed his views of Ufe, its duties
and obfigations, and had decided to reUnquish the
practice of his profession.
* Judge Thomas Hopkinson, deceased 1856.

65
I seldom met him untU he resumed its practice in
this city ; and then, how changed, how different from
when I knew him m coUege ! His spirit seemed sub
dued ; he was modest and gentle almost as a woman.
His manner was quiet, sometimes seeming even timid.
He was kind and friendly. We had little poUtical
sympathy, but that did not diminish our friendship,
and he greeted me almost as a brother. We fre
quently met in our professional walks, and our asso
ciation was most agreeable.
He did not try many cases before juries. He was
quite equal to it, but he did not find the sharp and
sometimes almost angry confficts of jury-trials con
genial to his temperament. He was an eminent law
yer, and fitted to adorn any branch of the profession,
but he preferred its quiet walks, and more than one
of his cUents has borne witness to me of his ability,
his stern integrity, and his fidefity to aU trusts com
mitted to him.

REMARKS

CHARLES SUMNER.

II n'y a que les grands cceurs qui sachent combien il y a de gloire
h etre bon. FENELON.

REMARKS.

I SHOULD feel unhappy if this little book of tribute
to my early friend were aUowed to appear, without
a word from me. We were classmates m coUege,
and, for two out of the four years of undergraduate
Ufe, we were chums. We were also together m the
Law School. Perhaps no person now alive knew him
better during aU this period. Separated afterwards
by the occupations of the world, I saw him only at
intervals, though our friendship continued unbroken to
the end, and when we met it was always with the
warmth and confidence of our youthful relations.
Of all my classmates, I think that he gave, in col
lege, the largest promise of future eminence, mingled,
however, with an uncertainty whether the wayward
ness of genius might not betray him. None then im
agined that the fiery nature, nursed upon the study
of Byron, and deUghtmg always to talk of his poetry
and Ufe, would be tamed to the modest ways which

70
he afterwards adopted. The danger seemed to be
that, like his prototype, he would break loose from
social life, and foUow the bent of a lawless ambition,
or at least plunge -with passion into the strifes of the
world. His earnestness at this time sometimes bor
dered on violence, and in all his opinions he was a
partisan. But he was already a thinker, as weU as
a reader, and expressed himself -with accuracy and
sententious force. Voice harmonizes with character,
and his then was too apt to be ungentle and loud.
They who have only known him latterly wUl be sur
prised at this glmapse of hun in early life. Indeed,
a change so complete in sentiment, manner, and voice,
as took place in him, I have never known. It seemed
like one of those instances in Christian story where a
man of violence is softened suddenly uito a saintly
character. I do not exaggerate in the least. So
much have I been impressed by it at times that I
could hardly beheve in his personal identity, and I
have recaUed the good Era Cristofero, m the exquisite
romance of Manzoni, to prove that the sunplest life
of unostentatious goodness may succeed to a youth
hot with passion of aU kinds.
To me, who knew him so weU in his other moods,
it was touching in the extreme to note this change.
Listening to his voice, now so gentle and low, while

71
he conversed on the duties of life, and with perfect
simpUcity revealed his own abnegation of worldly am
bition, I have been filled with reverence. At these
times his conversation was pecuUar and instructive.
He had thought for himself, and expressed what he
said with all his native force refined by a new-born
sweetness of soul, which would have commended sen
timents even of less intrinsic interest. I saw how,
Ul the purity of his nature, he turned aside from
riches and from ambition of all kinds, and contented
himself with a tranquU existence, undisturbed by any
of those temptations which promised once to exercise
such sway over him. But his opinions, whUe uttered
with modesty, were marked by the hardihood of an
original thinker, showing that in him
" the Gods had joined
The mildest manners aud the bravest mind.'"
His early renunciation of office — opening the way to
a tempting poUtical career — when formally tendered
to him, is almost unique. This was as long ago as
1838, while he was yet a young man ; and here
his sagacity seemed to be as remarkable as his prin
ciples. At that early day, when the two old political
parties had been little criticised, he announced that
their strife was " occasional and temporary, and that

72
both had forgotten or overlooked the great principle
of equal liberty for aU, upon which a free govern
ment must rest as its only true and safe basis." He
then proceeded to dissolve his connection with parties,
ia words worthy of perpetual memory. " I discon
nect myself from party," he said, " whose iron grasp
holds hard even upon the least of us, and mean in
my Uttle sphere, as a private individual, to serve what
seems to me the cause of the country and human
ity. I cannot place currency above liberty. I cannot
place money above man. I cannot fight heartUy for
the Whigs and against their opponents, when I feel
that whichever shall be the victorious party, the claims
of humanity wiU be forgotten in the triumph, and that
the rights of the slave may be crushed beneath the
advancing hosts of the victors." No better words than
these have been uttered in our poUtical history. In
this spirit, and with his unquestionable abiUties, he
might weU have acted an important part ia the grow
ing conflict with Slavery. But his love of retreat
grew also, and he shrank completely from all the
activities of poUtical life. There was nothing that
was not within his reach ; but he could not be
tempted. I cannot disguise that at times I was disposed to
criticise this retreat, as suggesting too closely the

78
questionable phUosophy concentrated in the phrase.
Bene vixit qui bene latuit. But as often as I came
within the sphere of his influence and felt the simple
beauty of his Ufe, — whUe I saw how his soul, like
the sensitive leaf, closed at the touch of the world,
— I was willing to believe that he had chosen wisely
for himself, or at all events that his course was
founded on a system deliberately adopted, upon which
even an early friend like myself must not intrude.
Having always the greatest confidence in his re
sources, intellectual as weU as moral, I was never
without hope that in some way he would make his
mark upon his country and his age. If he has not
done this, he has at least left an example precious
to all who knew him.

10

SELECTIONS

NOTICES OF THE LIFE AND CHARACTER

MR. BROWNE,

WHICH APPEARED IN THE NEWSPAPERS 01 MAY,

SELECTIONS.

(From the Salem Gazette, May 8, 1860.)
To those who weU knew John W. Browne, it may
seem almost Uke an offence to his gentle and retirmg
spu-it to take pubhc notice of his virtues and his
character. Yet he was one of those who impress
themselves so deeply upon the minds of friends, that
it is hard to refrain from giving -mder utterance
than the private circle allows, to some sense of his
worth. Somewhat recluse m his habits, few in this place
of his birth knew him weU enough rightly to appre
ciate either the powers of his mind, or the beauties
of his character. To those few his memory is hal
lowed and endeared in a pecuUar manner. They saw
in him a man of briUiant gifts — whose thoughts far
transcended the ordinary range of thought — whose
common talk was replete with wisdom and with elo
quence — to whose mind the subtlest distinctions in

78
metaphysics and in morals unfolded themselves in
clearness — a man of rare endowments, both as to
insight and utterance.
And if his mind, wonderfully rich ia high and pure
thoughts, attracted and satisfied those who were ad
mitted to his intimacy, his character held them by a
still stronger bond, winning respect and esteem and
love. It was remarkable for its chUdlike and per
fect sincerity. One felt that he never did a thing,
or spoke a word, or made a profession for the sake of
appearances, or with any thought as to how his deeds
or his words might affect hun in the estimation of
others. At aU times he was himself — impulsive, yet
controUed — regardful of the feeUngs of others, yet
more careful to maintain the right under all circum
stances and on all occasions. Eastidious, even to
daintiness, in his tastes and his habits, he appeared
never to shriak from any duty, however unpleasant,
if he felt satisfied that he could worthUy accomplish
the work to which it caUed him. He seemed like
one removed from the motives and incentives which
others acknowledge, and to have but a single guide
to his conduct, and that, his sense of right, to which
he sacrificed ambition and honor and worldly profit,
aU of which his gifts and his acquirements would have
enabled him to gratify and attain to. It may be that

79
he did not forego with ease the distinctions and the
position which he might have claimed, but having fore
gone them he had no regrets for their loss. He felt
that he could not mingle in the common strifes of the
world vnthout harm to his nature, and he withdrew
from them, not without a struggle, (for he had most
of the elements of success,) but yet completely.
To some extent his feelings in this direction may
have been morbid, but if so it was a faifing on
the side of virtue ; and he himself was perhaps
the best judge in the case. His scrupulous, his per
haps over-scrupulous conscientiousness, was one of the
most noticeable traits in his character. It seemed
to those who knew him best, as if it would be well-
nigh as impossible for him, consciously, to do the
thing which he thought not to be right, as for the
sun to go backwards in his course. This reliance of
his friends upon his perfect rectitude was the most
touching tribute that could be paid to his character,
as it is now the most satisfactory reflection upon his
memory. While injustice and oppression in any form
or against any person created within him almost a
storm of excitement, he never, or if ever, only for a
moment, forgot to be strictly just to the thoughts and
opinions of others as weU as carefully mindful of their
feelings.

80
His love of nature was very strong, and peculiar
in its character. The world of matter was to him
no dead machinery wound up and set in motion by
a far-off God mUlions of ages ago, — no mere arrange
ment for the pleasure and convenience of man. He
saw it instinct with the life of a present God, infused
with His love, and having high uses and the grandest
of purposes ; and thus to him Nature was a great
instructor and an ever-present comforter. For him
there were " sermons in stones and good in every
thing;" and in the smaUest insect, which others count
vile and hateful, he recognized nice adaptations and
wonderful powers, saw in it a being worthy of crear
tion and care, and thus an object of love, — and so
he defended it and sheltered it with a tenderness
which not many could appreciate, and which some
would have mocked. The common things which we
meet in our walks, — the little bugs and small flowers
which most pass by, or tread upon, heedlessly, — he
Ungered over and cherished, delighting in their rare
beauties, admiring their nice instincts and curious
ways, and ever regardful of them as a portion of the
great life of the world. AU nature, indeed, was so
alive to him that he never seemed to be more than
half persuaded but that the things which we call in
sensate, — the trees, the plants, the stones, the ele-

81
ments, — have a sentient life of their own, hidden
from the coarse senses of men, but real; and so he
was tender of them all, Uked not to see them thought
lessly broken, scarcely liked to see them disturbed or
changed. His love of truth was supreme — his mental har
dihood and moral courage something remarkable.
He bfinked no opinions to which his logic led him,
nor ever counted their cost, nor shrunk from any
conclusions (however they might differ from the
prevaUing thought,) which his reason and his con
science approved, but accepted them in the simplest
manner, as God's truth revealed to him, to which he
owed aUegiance, and which he strove to incorporate
-with his common life. The reserve of his nature did
not allow him to be demonstrative, but he was touch
ingly tender and affectionate in all his relations with
his friends. Uncounted, unrecorded, (except above
and in thankful hearts,) unostentatious deeds of kind
ness to them and to others, and especially to such as
had need or suffered wrong, follow bim with their
grateful testimony. In their memories he Uves as
one of the most pure, most just, most unselfish of
their recollections, — upright before God, downright
before men. A.
11

82
{From the Boston Daily Adcertiser, May 5, 1860.)
In the death of Mr. Browne, the world has lost a
man, who made it a better place to live in. To a
clear, piercing intellect, and a rich fancy, he united
a gentle, rare humor, and a cordial sweetness that
will make his memory especially dear to his compan
ions. But his friends knew that he had a heart of
gold. None but those who had tested and tried him,
knew how faithful and true was his nature, how lofty
his principles, how broad and comprehensive his sym
pathies. He was from taste and habit a silent man, and had
no desire for pubhc life. The pubfic, however, has
always an interest in the death of a man like him,
since a virtue is felt to have gone out, with his
life, from the earth : there is, by so much, (and
how much !) of honor, truth, nobUity, piety, in it
less. To ' draw nearer, — yet without intrusion into that
inner circle, sacred from aU sympathy but that of
sUent tears and prayers, — it may be said that, to
those whose happiness it has been to know him well,
to Usten from time to time to his fervent word, to
be lifted in sympathy with his calm phUosophy, as
by the strong wing of an angel, to purer regions of
thought and motive, the remembrance of him will

83
always be one of the warmest admiration and affec
tion. To his pure and lofty soul the moment that
changed aspu-ation to true life, however sudden the
call, must have been one of joyful welcome ; — and,
because he has thus lived, we can say, with fuU
hearts, " Blessed are the dead ! " H.

{From the Boston Daily Advertiser, May 7, 1860.)
One hardly knows how to speak of a man
whose daUy Ufe had its daily expression in a noble,
highly cultivated intellect, in a morality so pure, so
attractive, so deUcate, in a character so lofty, so un
selfish, so unconscious, that your estimate of him
could only come of your own harmony — sympathy
with his ovm nature. He was almost womanly in
his gentleness. His voice had that character of low-
ness, so " Excellent a thing in woman,"
which always commands a wiUing hearing in man.
When stirred, and stirred he could be, it was out of
his large deep eye shone the power and brightness
of his soul, which, without noise, commanded you to
see, to acknowledge, and to feel it. * * * * *

84

Our friend was, of course, in ready sympathy with
the poor, the helpless, the stranger. It was my
privilege for more than eight years to be associated
-with him in the management of a society's concerns
whose object it was to help the most helpless of men
— the discharged convict. Here was a man who, for
life, had been shut out, for crime, from the cheerful
ways of man, — a legal slave, — the daily companion
of criminals, — denied conversation even with them, —
who was to be soUtary in a crowd, — cut off from
the ready, cheerful sympathy of wife, chUdren, and
friends, — and in deathlike silence among the living
was to learn the great reason of repentance and to
prepare for its meek works. Our society received
this man into its care at the gate of his prison, —
took him to hand and to heart, in the full sunUght
of his new-born liberty, — took him to a cheerful
home, — clothed, sheltered, fed him, — but above aU
gave him employment in the trade he had learned in
prison, and which the society's agent had procured
for him before his discharge.
Here was a field in which our friend loved to work.
He was the secretary and was busy at meetings in
keeping the record. When occasion was he would
lay down his pen and speak, and thus with his low,
harmonious, let me say beautiful, voice, give his views

85
of the subject before the board. His word of wis
dom, which, like that from above, was just and always
gentle, we heard with delight and cheerfully heeded,
or when there were different views held by others at
the table, these had their character from the deep
tone, the good sense, and quiet manner of our sec
retary. Mr. Browne had a public life, both professional
and political. Of this last I knew the most. He
was a reformer. Pohtics with him was not selfish
ness. He looked not and labored not for place. His
was the moral of politics, for the science of the
management of a nation's affairs has a moral — a
principle which is true as is that which holds the
physical world in place, order, beauty ; and in his
political Ufe he looked steadily and wisely to the
great principle which is the only sure Ught in the
path of a poUtician. He was a lover of freedom, and
freedom he would have, and defend for all others.
At times I have heard him speak of the slavery of
the Republic. He did not for a moment admit the
dogma of Machiavel, who says, " The interests of
every repubUc demand that the State shall be rich,
and the citizens poor." No. He believed no such
thing, nor did he more believe that in a republic a
part of the citizens shall be slaves, and the other

86
part FEEE. He made open war upon this doctrine.
As some one says of Burns, —
He loved the battle for his bread,
But would not be its slave ;
Indifferent if alive or dead, —
But freedom he would have.

And what he would have for himself, our friend de
manded for every other man. *******
He spoke always for man. He was no formalist,
and had not dwarfed and screwed up his faith in a
written creed. He would be free, and gain moral
and intellectual food from whatever source to his con
victions was a true one. Nullius addictus jurare in
verba magistri, was the motto, the very note of his
Ufe, and yet so gentle, so gentlemanlike was he in his
outlived truth, that he never offended you. He would
have been most happy in the widest, deepest .friend
ship, in expressed regard and harmony, but he would
not fight vulgarly even for a consummation which
would have made him so happy. ******
But I must bring to a close this hasty sketch of
the character of one so loved and so reverenced by
all who knew him. He has passed aAvay so suddenly,
for us so sadly, that we hardly feel that he is gone.
We look again to see him in the busy ways of men,
working, in feeble health, so cheerfully for others, as

87
if aU his life were a hoUday. We wUl bear him in
faithful memory ; and in our knowledge, love, and
reverence of him, find motives for laboring to imitate
him. *

{From the Neio York Tribune.)
* He -ft'as a man of very marked characteris
tics. An ardent philanthropy, united with the utmost
gentleness and kindness, a fearless love of truth, a
manly independence, and a singularly sensitive con
scientiousness especially distinguished him. When jus
tice and right were to be sustained and defended, his
purse was always open, and his services free and
active. He was a warm friend of the slave, and on
the subject of slavery was ever outspoken, bold, and
uncompromising. In legal knowledge and attainment
he was hardly second to any member of the bar in
his native State, and one of the most distinguished
members of the profession, now a United States Sen
ator, recently remarked that Mr. Browne would be
one of the most eminent advocates of the country if
he could lay aside his conscience. L.

88
{From the Necrology of Graduates of Harvard College, published
annually under the direction of the Association of Alumni.')
John White Browne was instantly killed in Brain
tree, Mass., May 1, 1860, by accidentally falling from
the platform of a railroad car while the train was in
motion. He was 50 years of age. He was son of
James and Lydia (Vincent) Browne, and was born
in Salem, March 29, 1810. His father was the eldest
lineal descendant of Elder John Browne, the Ruling
Elder of the First Church of the Massachusetts Bay
Colony at Salem, whose acceptance of the Eldership
the Rev. Mr. Higginson made the condition of his
own settlement as pastor. His greai^grandfather, for
whom he -was named, was John White, whose daugh
ter, Mary White, was the wife of Elder William
Browne, and mother of James Browne, the father
of John White Browne. Both William and James
were Elders in the East Church, Salem — Unitarian,
under the pastorate of the late Dr. William Bentiey
(H. U. 1777) — James succeeding at the death of
his father.
The subject of this notice was fitted for college at
the Salem Classical School, under the charge of Theo
dore Ames and Henry Kemble Oliver. WhUe in col
lege he was the chum of Hon. Charles Sumner. He
attained to a very high rank of scholarship in his

89
class, and graduated with distinguished honors. He
studied law one year at the Law School at Cam
bridge, one year with Hon. Rufus Choate (D. C.
1819) and one year with Hon. Leverett SaltonstaU
(H. U. 1802) in Salem. He practised his profession
several years in Lynn, but about twelve years before
his death he removed to Boston, where he continued
m practice, principaUy as a conveyancer, untU his de
cease. In 1837 he was elected a Representative to
the Legislature, and in 1838, during his absence from
the State, he was nominated by the Whig party of
Essex county as a candidate for the State Senate.
On his return he decUned the nomination, for the
reason that he was unwUlmg to become the candidate
of any party for poUtical office. From that time he
carefully avoided poUtical prominence, (although he
took a warm and constant interest in the course of
pubhc affairs,) devotmg himself -with extreme assiduity
to the business of his profession. He took an espe
ciaUy serviceable part in almost every effort for #rim-
inal reform and for the improvement of prison dis
cipline, during his long period of active professional
service, and was also earnestly, though quietly, de
voted to the promotion of the anti-slavery movement.
His daily Ufe was an exhibition of a noble, highly
cultivated intellect, of the purest morality, and the
12

90
gentlest, kindly feelings for the welfare of the whole
human race.
He married, in 1842, Martha Ann Gibbs, daugh
ter of Captaui Barnabas Lincoln, of Huigham. They
had but one chUd — a daughter, (Laura Lincoln
Browne,) who, with her mother, survives him.

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