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Arthur Buckminster Fuller.

Chaplain 16th Mass. Vols. (Infantry), August 1, 1861; discharged, on resignation, December 10, 1862; killed, as volunteer, at Fredericksburg, Va., December 11, 1862.

in that wonderful fragment of early autobiography which Margaret Fuller Ossoli left behind her, and just before that brilliant passage in which she portrays the respective influence upon her childhood of the Greek and Roman traditions, she speaks lovingly of the household around her in those juvenile years, and of the ‘younger children’ in whom her mother was so much absorbed. One of those younger children was Arthur, at whose funeral, long years after, James Freeman Clarke thus recalled the images of that happy group:—

I first knew Arthur Buckminster Fuller as a little boy. Being a distant relative, I was in the habit of visiting his father's family while a student at Cambridge. They lived at that time in the old Dana House, on the bend of the road from Boston. In the large, old-fashioned parlor the family sat together in the evening; Mr. Timothy Fuller sitting by one corner of the open fire, with his stand, holding his papers and a lamp, at work preparing for his law duties of the next day, but occasionally taking part in the conversation; usually, as I remember, in moderating what he thought some too enthusiastic statement of his daughter Margaret. She sat talking with her friends as only she could talk, and the younger children studied their lessons or played together; and among them I well remember the bright eyes, and clear, open features of Arthur. Near by sat the mother at her work, serene, gentle, kind, a comfort and joy to all.

Arthur Buckminster Fuller was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 10th, 1822; the son of Timothy and Margaret (Crane) Fuller. His maternal grandfather, Major Peter Crane of Canton, served in the Revolution, and was at one time the chaplain of his regiment. His paternal grandfather, [73] the Reverend Timothy Fuller, represented Princeton in the Massachusetts Convention for the adoption of the Federal Constitution, and voted against that instrument because of the clause providing for the rendition of fugitives from service. He was descended from Thomas Fuller, who emigrated to America in 1638.

Timothy Fuller the younger was one of five brothers, all lawyers. His daughter Margaret has sketched his character with frankness and with vigor. He was often in public life, and was a Representative in Congress from 1817 to 1825, where he was Chairman of the Committee on Naval Affairs, and prominent as a defender of the Seminole Indians and as an opponent of the Missouri Compromise. He resided in Cambridge until 1834, when he removed, with his family, to a farm in Groton, where he died the following year.

The family being thus left fatherless, much of the responsibility of the care and training of the children devolved on the eldest sister. How much they owed to this extraordinary woman is indirectly made manifest in many passages of her ‘Memoirs’ and ‘Writings,’—the latter having been edited, after her death, by the grateful hands of her brother Arthur. He was fitted for college, amid great obstacles, by his sister, by the teachers of Leicester Academy, and by Mrs. Ripley of Concord, Massachusetts, whose classical school had then a high reputation.

During his college course he aided in his own support by teaching school, was faithful to his duties, and graduated with creditable rank in 1843. On leaving college he instantly entered on the career of activity which he loved; investing what was left of his small patrimony, a few hundred dollars, in the purchase of an academy at Belvidere, Illinois. There he not only taught secular studies, but soon began the work of religious exhortation with a zeal which brooked no delay. A Unitarian of the more evangelical type, he yet obtained the fellowship of Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians. With the Methodists especially he sympathized by temperament and habits, and associated much with them during his whole life. [74]

He wrote home about this time:—

I go every Sabbath about eleven miles, take charge of a Sabbath school at ten, preach at eleven, have an intermission of half an hour at half past 12, preach again a long sermon, take tea at once, and ride over the chill, bleak prairie, directly home, which I do not reach till late in the evening. On week days, besides the hours of teaching, I lecture and aid in debating-societies, and so forth, so that I can scarcely find time to write even these poor letters.

Two years he spent in labors such as these, and then returned to spend two years of study at the Divinity School of Harvard University. To revert to the pursuits of the student was, however, rather hard for one who had already lived the stirring life of a pioneer preacher; and his zeal was constantly bursting over the cautious regulations of the Faculty,—he naturally demeaning himself as a full-fledged minister instead of a pupil. Much of his time was given, therefore, to extraneous occupation, though he graduated with his class in 1847.

This partial separation of pursuits, added to some peculiarities of temperament, and a rather marked use of evangelical phrases and methods, formed undoubtedly some slight barrier between Arthur Fuller and many of his companions, both at this time and afterwards. Having been accustomed to express his opinions with the greatest freedom and unction to Western audiences by no means his equals in education, he had not always the necessary tact in dealing with his equals, and hence was apt to elicit as much antagonism as sympathy. If he erred, however, everybody admitted that it was from excess of zeal; but it is difficult to make such zeal attractive, especially among cultivated intellectualists, and certainly he did not always succeed. His intense earnestness had, or seemed to have, a flavor of self-assertion, and this often led his critics to do him less than justice. The recollection of this peculiarity in him, whatever may have been its source, added interest to his later career in the army; for it is evident that the grander experiences of life smoothed away some of these roughnesses, and developed in him more comprehensiveness, more tact, and more power of adaptation. [75]

After leaving the Divinity School he preached a few times at Albany, New York, and wrote thence: ‘I have been attending a course of anti-slavery lectures by Frederick Douglass, the fugitive slave, and have become greatly interested.’ Then he supplied the pulpit, for three months, of ‘Father Taylor,’ the celebrated Methodist sailor-preacher in Boston. He was afterwards settled as minister over the Unitarian Society in Manchester, New Hampshire, then over the New North Church in Boston, and then in Watertown, Massachusetts. In all these positions he worked for years with the zeal of a revivalist; and he also took active part in the usual collateral duties of a New England minister, rendering important services on school committees, and in temperance and antislavery reforms. He was also twice chaplain of different branches of the Legislature of Massachusetts.

He was twice married,— to Miss Elizabeth G. Davenport of Mendon; and, after her death, to Miss Emma L. Reeves of Wayland. The latter, with several children, survives him.

He devoted much time at this period to revising and editing, in their final form, the writings of his sister Margaret; interweaving in the work a great deal of new matter from her manuscripts. This work was admirably done, especially when we take into consideration the wide difference in temperament, habits, and aims between the sister and the brother. He thus speaks of this affectionate labor:—

I have done my best and hardest work on this book. The labor of compiling and superintending such a publication and correcting the proof is greater than I could have conceived possible. It is done; and I thank God for giving me strength to do it. I pray that it may contribute to do justice to her merits. That is all the reward I can expect; and that reward would be so noble, so holy!

And again:—

This has been a labor of love, which I have joyed in, and have esteemed a privilege, and not a burden. If I only live to send forth Margaret's works from the press, as they should appear, I shall not have lived wholly in vain.

All the profits of these volumes were sacredly devoted to [76] repaying certain debts, contracted long before by his sister, at the time when she was the support and protector of the household. These debts were all due to very friendly creditors, yet he wrote joyfully when all was done: ‘Margaret's debts are all paid, every dollar. That sacred trust to us is now fulfilled.’

In the midst of these pursuits came the call to arms, after the attack on Fort Sumter. Watertown, like other villages, had its war meeting, which was addressed by the Unitarian minister among others. A newspaper narrative describes his speech as follows:—

Rev. Arthur B. Fuller protested against “any further compromise with slavery. Thus far, and no farther.” He was in favor of the Constitution of these United States. He was in favor of a settlement; but, in the language of Honorable Charles Sumner, “Nothing is ever settled that is not settled right.” Let us stand right ourselves, and then we can demand right from others. He urged the Republicans to stand by the election of Lincoln and Hamlin. . . . . He was opposed to compromise,— even to the admission of New Mexico,--because it would be in violation of our platform, and at variance with the opinions of such honored statesmen as Webster and Clay, and because it interdicted the spirit of the Gospel.

He at once began to visit the camps for religious exhortation; was soon elected chaplain of the Sixteenth Massachusetts Infantry, and was commissioned as such, August 1, 1861. In his letter of resignation, he thus stated to his parish his motives:—

The moral and religious welfare of our patriotic soldiery cannot be neglected, save to the demoralization and permanent spiritual injury of those who are perilling their all in our country's cause. The regiment represents Middlesex County on the tented field, the county in which I was born, and which my honored father represented in our national Congress; and one company is from Watertown, where for nearly two years I have been a settled minister,— circumstances which give this call of duty a peculiar claim upon my mind and heart. I am willing to peril life for the welfare of our brave soldiery and in our country's cause. If God requires that sacrifice of me, it shall be offered on the altar of freedom, and in defence of all that is good in American institutions.


A parting festival was held at the pastor's house, and many presents were brought in,— every religious denomination in town being represented in the gifts. A prayer-meeting took place in the Methodist church, the services being conducted by Mr. Fuller in connection with Rev. Mr. Hempstead, minister of that church. An army officer, who was present, spoke of the dangers to which he was about to return; and the two clergymen offered prayers for him. It was noted afterwards as remarkable, that this officer finally came back to his home uninjured, while both the ministers became chaplains, and gave up their lives, within a few days of each other, at Fredericksburg.

Chaplain Fuller left Boston, with his regiment, August 17, 1861. Scarcely were they settled in camp, near Baltimore, when he entered with his wonted zeal upon his new labors. He writes as follows:—

Our encampment is hardly settled enough yet for definite arrangements to have been fully carried out. After this week, however, the arrangements are as follows: Sunday school at nine A. M.; attendance to be wholly voluntary. Preaching every Sabbath at five o'clock, P. M., the old hour at Camp Cameron, and the best hour of the day for the purpose. Prayer and conference meeting (when practicable) every day at about six and seven P. M.; attendance of course voluntary. These services will be fully attended. Even now, every night there are quiet circles for prayer and praise.

Besides these services, there are Bibles and religious volumes to be distributed to the men, and books for singing God's praise. We find the ‘Army Melodies’ useful among us, and were not the writer one of the editors of the volume, he would say much of the necessity and usefulness of supplying religious and patriotic music and words to every regiment and every naval vessel, in place of the ribald songs so sadly common in the army and on shipboard. No more refining or religious instrumentality than music can be used.

The position of an army chaplain is no easy one: the majority of clergymen fail in it. In a little world of the most accurate order, where every man's duties and position are absolutely prescribed, the chaplain alone has no definite [78] position and no prescribed duties. In a sphere where everything is concentrated on one sole end, he alone finds himself of no direct use towards that end, and apparently superfluous. In this difficult position, nine men out of ten are almost useless, while the tenth achieves a wide-spread influence. Arthur Fuller seemed to be one of the latter class. The prime qualities required by his new position were moral energy and tact; he had always a superabundance of the one, and he must have developed the other, or he could not have been so successful as he evidently was.

For instance, it is the custom in some regiments for the chaplain to be the caterer for the officers' mess. The first proposition to this effect, in the Sixteenth Massachusetts, was promptly met by a Scripture text, ‘It is not reason that we should leave the word of God and serve tables.’ The Colonel was not quite pleased, it is said, with this piece of frankness; yet afterwards, at a complimentary dinner of the officers, when they had vainly implored the Chaplain to take wine with them, the Colonel finally proposed three cheers for the Chaplain, as ‘a man whom we all honor the more, because in public and private he is uniformly consistent with his principles.’

In accordance with these views, the Chaplain was soon at work in resisting the most perilous of army vices. He writes:—

We celebrated the close of the year 1861 by forming in the Sixteenth Massachusetts Regiment a Division of the Sons of Temperance. At an early hour the new chapel-tent of the regiment was filled to overflowing with soldiers eager to listen to an exposition of the principles of the organization, and to unite in the movement, if it commended itself to their judgment. Over one hundred officers and soldiers were proposed for initiation. Authority had been received by the chaplain from the Grand Division of Massachusetts to organize this Division, which is to embrace not only soldiers of this regiment, but Massachusetts men connected with other regiments at or near Camp Hamilton, or with the naval vessels lying off the fortress.

He formed also an ‘Army Christian Association,’ and a ‘Soldiers' Teachers' Association,’—thus transplanting the [79] church and school-house of New England to the soil of Virginia. Then, by freely setting forth at home the demands of the regiment, he provided a ‘chapel-tent,’—the first seen, probably, in our army. He thus describes its dedication:—

Yesterday was a noteworthy day with the Sixteenth Massachusetts Regiment, for on it we dedicated our beautiful tabernacle tent. This tent was presented to us by various patriotic and benevolent citizens of Boston, who desire that religious services may not necessarily be suspended during the sultry heat of summer, or during the fall of the rain, so copious in Virginia, and that our evening prayer and temperance meetings may not necessarily be held in the open air. The subscriptions were secured by a most excellent lady, and she receives the grateful acknowledgments of our entire regiment. The day of dedication was also Forefathers' Day (December 22), which was very appropriate for a Massachusetts regiment, having their tabernacle in the wilderness, as did their fathers.

Both army and navy chaplains participated in the exercises. The chaplains were representatives of nearly every sect, including Roman Catholic; but there was entire harmony, and a sweet blending of devout sentiment and Christian, patriotic utterance. Chaplains from North and South, East and West, were there, and from sea and shore, yet no discordant note was uttered. The tabernacle tent was trimmed with holly and live-oak wreaths and crosses, made by the soldiers with a taste which would have surprised our female friends. The ladies of the Hygeia Hospital, who were present, contributed a beautiful cross of mingled evergreen and flowers. Our regimental band played the Star-spangled Banner admirably, and the regimental choir sang the hymns written for the occasion, in a manner which elicited, as it deserved, much praise. Rev. Mr. Fuller's dedication discourse was founded on the text in Isaiah IV. 6, “And there shall be a tabernacle, for a shadow in the daytime from the heat, and for a place of refuge, and for a covert from storm and rain.”

Besides these varied labors in the regiment, Chaplain Fuller was an active newspaper correspondent,—writing letters to the Boston Journal, the Boston Traveller, the New York Tribune, the Christian Inquirer, and other journals. Among these letters was a narrative—perhaps the most graphic ever given—of the famous contest between the Merrimack and [80] the Monitor, and all the exciting events which preceded and followed. These important letters are fully given in the Memoir of Chaplain Fuller, by his brother; but only the most exciting passage of the narrative can be here inserted. The date is March 15, 1862:—

The morrow came, and with it came the inevitable battle between those strange combatants, the Merrimack and the Monitor. What a lovely Sabbath it was! how peaceful and balmy that Southern spring morning! Smiling Nature whispered only “peace,” but fierce treason breathed out threatenings and slaughter, and would have war. . . . . At nine o'clock, A. M., the Merrimack, attended by her consorts, the war-steamers Jamestown and Yorktown, and a fleet of little tug-boats, crowded with ladies and gentlemen from Norfolk, who were desirous of seeing the Minnesota captured, and perhaps even Fortress Monroe taken,—certainly all its outlying vessels and the houses in its environs burnt.

The little Monitor lay concealed in the shadow of the Minnesota. The Merrimack opens the conflict, and her guns shake the sea and air as they breathe out shot and flame. Sewall's Point sends from its mortars shell which burst in the air above the doomed Minnesota. The Minnesota, still aground, replies with a bold but ineffectual broadside. All promises an easy victory to the Merrimack, when lo! the little Monitor steams gently out and offers the monster Merrimack battle. How puny, how contemptible she seemed! nothing but that little round tub appearing above the water, and yet flinging down the gage of defiance to the gigantic Merrimack. It was little David challenging the giant Goliath once again,—the little one, the hope of Israel; the giant, the pride of the heathen Philistines. Truly our hopes were dim, and our hearts almost faint for the moment. The few men on the Monitor are sea and storm worn, and weary enough, and their little craft is an experiment, with only two guns with which to answer the Merrimack's many. Who can doubt the issue? who believe the Monitor can fail to be defeated? And if she is, what is to hinder the victorious and unopposed and unopposable Merrimack from opening the blockade of the coast, or shelling Washington, New York, and Boston, after first devastating our camp and destroying its soldiery? That was the issue; such might have been the result, smile now who will. Believe me, there were prayers offered—many and fervent—that Sabbath, along the shore and from the Fortress [81] walls, as our regiment watched the battle; and sailors must have prayed, too, as never before.

The Merrimack, after a few minutes of astounded silence, opened the contest. She tried to sink her puny foe at once by a broadside, and be no longer delayed from the Minnesota, whose capture she had determined upon. After the smoke of the cannonade had cleared away, we looked fearing, and the crew of the Merrimack looked hoping that the Monitor had sunk to rise no more. But she still lived. There she was, with the white wreaths of smoke crowning her tower, as if a coronet of glory. And valiantly she returned the fire, too; and for five hours such a lively cannonading as was heard, shaking earth and sea, was never heard before. Literally, I believe that never have ships carrying such heavy guns met, till that Sabbath morning. Every manoeuvre was exhausted by the enemy. The Yorktown approached to mingle in the fray. One shot was enough to send her quickly back, a lame duck upon the waters, though she, too, is iron-clad. The Merrimack tried to run the Monitor down, and thus sink her; she only got fiercer shots by the opportunity she thus gave her little antagonist. And so it went on till the proud Merrimack, disabled, was glad to retire, and, making signals of distress, was towed away by her sorrowing consorts. David had conquered Goliath with his smooth stones, or wrought-iron balls, from his little sling, or shot-tower. Israel rejoiced in her deliverance, through the power of God, who had sent that little champion of his cause, in our direst extremity, to the battle. Since then the Merrimack has not shown herself; and the enemy confess her disabled, and her commander, Buchanan,— ominous name,— severely wounded, four of her crew killed, and seventeen wounded.

The regiment occupied Norfolk and Portsmouth and Suffolk for a time; then joined the Peninsular army, and had war and suffering in earnest, being attached to Hooker's division. Chaplain Fuller had just obtained a furlough, but refused to avail himself of it. Their first serious skirmish was on June 19, near the scene of the battle of Fair Oaks. When the regiment was ordered out, the Chaplain was lying in his tent, suffering with a severe sick-headache. Hearing one of the soldiers say, in passing near the tent, that he wished he had a sick-headache, the Chaplain at once rose, went to the field, and happening to get under a dangerous cross-fire, behaved with such [82] coolness as to increase very greatly his influence among the men. Indeed, all through that campaign he seems to have shared his lot with the soldiers until his health began to fail. He wrote home from the field:—

I am enduring much privation in the way of food, clothing, and exposure. But I do not think it manly to write particulars, as you desire; indeed, I endeavor not to think about it. Almost every day, and sometimes twice a day, I go out with the regiment in line of battle. I deem this my duty. For nine days I had no change of raiment, not even a clean shirt or handkerchief, and lived on hard crackers and sour coffee. But God blesses my labors, particularly among the sick and wounded, and I am far enough from repining. Of all places in the world, I am glad I am here now. I find no physical fear to be mine. This is a mere matter of organization, not merit. Meet me on earth, if it may be; in heaven, surely. And know that nothing will make me swerve from my fealty to God, to Christ his Son, to my family, my State, and my Country.

All the following summer he remained at home, very ill; but rejoined his regiment at Alexandria, November 4, 1862. Forbidden by the surgeon from accompanying it to the front, he devoted himself to labors in the hospitals and convalescent camps of that vicinity. He wrote:—

I work very hard among the sick and dying soldiers. We have five large buildings and several tents crowded with more than five hundred sick men, and only two surgeons in attendance, and my services are greatly needed.

He again tried to rejoin his regiment at Manassas, and failing, was obliged to abandon all hope of field service. He wrote to his family:—

The President of the United States promises me, through Senator Clark, a commission with full powers as chaplain in a hospital or stationary camp. The Surgeon-General gives the same assurance. But it is necessary that I should resign my present position before assuming the new. I go to the camp at Falmouth to-morrow morning, in order to resign. I do this with much regret.

He was discharged from service, on resignation, December 10, 1862. On the very next day his death occurred, under those extraordinary circumstances which made it unique in the [83] history of the war. At least I know of no other case in this war, or in any, in which a chaplain, the day after his discharge, —still wearing his uniform, and therefore the more exposed, —bearing his discharge on his person, and therefore not liable to exchange in case of capture,— knowing that his family, should he be killed, could legally receive no pension, and therefore having the more to risk,— has volunteered, without a soldier's training, for the most perilous duty of a common soldier, and been killed in doing it.

The Army of the Potomac, under Burnside, was to cross the river at Fredericksburg. It was six o'clock, and though the pontoons were partly laid, yet the fire of the enemy's sharpshooters was so furious that the work could not be finished. The boats could carry but a hundred at a time. A call was made for volunteers. Chaplain Fuller, who was present, took a rifle and stepped forward as one. He crossed the river safely, but fell at the entrance of the city, pierced by two bullets, and grazed by a third. He was instantly killed.

The best narrative of the incident is that given by Captain Moncena Dunn, Nineteenth Massachusetts Infantry, under whose orders the Chaplain had placed himself:—

In answer to your inquiries, I would say, that, although I had previously intended, at the suggestion of a mutual friend, to make the acquaintance of Chaplain Fuller, I saw him for the first time in the streets of Fredericksburg, on the 11th December ultimo, at about half past 3, P. M., where I was in command of twenty-five men deployed as skirmishers. We came over in the boats, and were in advance of the others who had crossed. Pursuant to orders, we marched up the street leading from the river, till we came to the third street traversing it, parallel with the river, and called Carolina Street, I think. We had been here but a few minutes when Chaplain Fuller accosted me with the usual military salute. He had a musket in his hand; and he said, “Captain, I must do something for my country. What shall I do?” I replied, that there never was a better time than the present; and he could take his place on my left. I thought he could render valuable aid, because he was perfectly cool and collected. Had he appeared at all excited, I should have rejected his services; for coolness is of the first importance with skirmishers, and one excited man has an unfavorable [84] influence upon the others. I have seldom seen a person on the field so calm and mild in his demeanor,—evidently not acting from impulse or martial rage.

His position was directly in front of a grocery store. He fell in five minutes after he took it, having fired once or twice. He was killed instantly, and did not move after he fell. I saw the flash of the rifle which did the deed.

I think the Chaplain fell from the ball which entered the hip. He might not have been aware of the wound from the ball entering his arm, as sometimes soldiers are not conscious of wounds in battle, or he may have been simultaneously hit by another rifle. We were in a very exposed position. Shortly before the Chaplain came up, one of General Burnside's aids accosted me, expressing surprise, and saying, “What are you doing here, Captain?” I replied that I had orders. He said that I must retire, if the Rebels pressed us too hard. In about half and hour I had definite orders to retire, and accordingly fell back, leaving the Chaplain and another man dead, and also a wounded man, who was unwilling to be moved. It is not usual, under such pressing circumstances, to attempt to remove the dead. In about an hour afterward, my regiment advanced in line with the Twentieth Massachusetts. They occupied the place where Chaplain Fuller fell; and they suffered very severely, it being much exposed. The Chaplain's body we found had been robbed, and the wounded man bayoneted by the Rebel Vandals, while the ground was left to them.

I think, in addition to Chaplain Fuller's desire to aid at a critical juncture in the affairs of his country, by the influence of his example and his personal assistance, he may have been willing also to show that he had not resigned in the face of the enemy from any desire to shrink from danger.

An unusual recognition of the services and the gallant death of Chaplain Fuller took place in Congress, some time afterwards. His death had led to just that result of which he had been warned by an army officer before his death;—his family was left without a pension, as he was not technically in the service. On his widow's petition to Congress, a special law providing her a pension very promptly passed both Houses without opposition. Honorable Charles Sumner presented the petition in the Senate, remarking, that

From the 1st day of August, 1861, Arthur B. Fuller had been [85] a duly commissioned chaplain in the Sixteenth Massachusetts Regiment of Volunteers, and had followed its flag faithfully, patriotically, religiously, through all the perils of the Peninsula and wherever else it had been borne.

The petition having been referred to the Committee on Pensions, they reported,

That it appears that Arthur B. Fuller was the chaplain of the Sixteenth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers; that his health was much impaired by the hardships and exposures of the Peninsular campaign; that after repeated efforts to renew his labors in the camp of his regiment, which were foiled by his sickness returning upon every such attempt, it was finally determined, by the advice of army surgeons, that his malady was such that he could not bear exposure in the field. He was accordingly honorably discharged, on surgeon's certificate of disability, on the 10th day of December, 1862. On the 11th day of December, on the call for volunteers to cross the Rappahannock at the battle of Fredericksburg, he volunteered, and was killed in the service soon after entering Fredericksburg.

The committee think that, though Chaplain Fuller was technically out of the service of the United States, still he was really in the service of his country and in the line of duty while bravely leading on the soldiers, and dying on the field of battle. They therefore think the petitioner entitled to the relief for which she prays, and accordingly report a bill.

The body of the slain soldier was sent home to Massachusetts, as soon as the incidents of war permitted. A private funeral took place at the house of his brother, and a public one at the First Church on Chauncey Street, in Boston, on December 24, 1862.

The church was crowded with the friends of the deceased, who wished some opportunity to express their sense of loss, their respect for his memory, and their estimation of his character and services. Governor Andrew and staff, General Andrews and staff, Chief Justice Bigelow, and other prominent public men, were present. The escort was performed by the Cadets.

The coffin was placed in front of the pulpit, and was profusely [86] covered with the most exquisite flowers. One by one the wreaths were placed upon the lid by loving hands, as the best expression of the cherished memories of the past. The following inscription was upon the plate:—

Rev. Arthur Buckminster Fuller,
Chaplain of the 16th Regiment of
Massachusetts Volunteers;
Killed at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Va.,
11th December, 1862,
Aged 40 years.
I must do something for my country.

These words were his fitting epitaph; and few there are who have so well succeeded in matching a single electric word and deed together. Margaret Fuller Ossoli was an artist in words; she left behind her many a sentence of the rarest depth and beauty,—‘lyric glimpses,’ Emerson called them,— and her glorious life in Italy joins with her tragic death to throw back upon those brilliant phrases the lustre of a corresponding self-devotion. Less gifted in intellect, less devoted to artistic culture, her brother and pupil left behind him this one utterance of self-devotion, putting to it, within that same hour, the seal of death. It may yet make his memory as lasting as her own.

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