He was born in Scituate
, and died in Medford
, March 29, 1876, aged eighty-two years, months.
‘It is the common lot of men to be born, to live, to die, to be forgotten,’ and it can only be but a short time when the few yet with us—their familiar forms and congenial countenances—will have disappeared; their faint and rapidly fleeting memories will have passed, which have so often assisted us over an almost impassable gulf, separating the present and past.
They only can relate to us the life, virtues, abilities and splendid excellences of those men of long ago; men who ‘were honored in their generations ad were the glory of their times.’
It is not alone those whose names are surmounted by the halo of fame, but those also who, although not graced by such high distinction, yet who constituted the sinew, laid the foundation, created the power and made possible that which e now enjoy; who lived, labored and passed away, too often without recognition, and how soon to be forgotten, but to whom we are indebted and should pay tribute to their memory as well as to the leaders, the great or distinguished.
They all in their various professions and callings, collectively, gave rise to that glowing vision imagined by Milton
: ‘Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, arousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks.
Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth and kindling her undazzled eye at the full mid-day beam; purging and unsealing her long abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that loved the twilight flutter about, amazed at what she means.’
It does not become me to speak of the present practitioners—the past alone has been my province.
Let others hail the rising sun:
I bow to those whose race is run.