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 moment to excuse, there is nothing to explain. What the snarling journal thought bold, what the selfish politician feared as his ruin,--it was God's seal set upon his apostleship. The little libel glanced across him like a rocket when it goes over the vault; it is passed, and the royal sun shines out as beneficent as ever. When I returned from New York on the thirteenth day of this month, I was to have been honored by standing in his desk, but illness prevented my fulfilling the appointment. It was eleven o'clock in the morning. As he sank away the same week, under the fair sky of Italy, he said to the most loving of wives and of nurses, “Let me be buried where I fall ;” and tenderly, thoughtfully, she selected four o'clock of the same Sunday to mingle his dust with the kindred dust of brave, classic Italy. Four o'clock! The same sun that looked upon the half-dozen mourners that he permitted to follow him to the grave, that same moment of brightness lighted up the arches of his own Temple, as one whom he loved stepped into his own desk, and with remarkable coincidence, for the only time during his absence, opened one of his own sermons to supply my place; and as his friend read the Beatitudes over his grave on the banks of the Arno, his dearer friend here read from a manuscript the text, “Have faith in God.” It is said that, in his last hours, in the wandering of that masterly brain, he murmured, “There are two Theodore Parkers,--one rests here, dying, but the other lives, and is at work at home.” How true! at that very instant, his own words were sinking down into the hearts of those that loved him best, and bidding them, in this, the loneliest hour of their bereavement, “Have faith in God.” He always came to this platform. He is an old occupant of it. He never made an apology for coming to it. I remember many years ago, going home from the very
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