Thomas Bartley on a Collegiate Education

What is the indispensable requisite of friendship? All similarity of pursuit. Birds of a feather flock together. Does the fact that two people are friends always presuppose that they are of like dispositions if not ideas? Not always, I imagine. When neither ideas nor inclinations are alike in the friends, in what does their friendship consist? Mutual admiration cannot account for it, for there may be admiration without friendship, and friendship without admiration. I have known one friend laugh at another who could not bear anybody else to do so. Does friendship consist of some prerogative enjoyed, as lord-paramount, by the heart independently of any instinct of the soul? I do not know. I know this—that Will Bryan and myself were similar neither in dispositions nor ideas; and yet when he made his “exit,” as he called it, my heart gave a turn, and I shed internal tears. Until then I did not know we were so close knit. I felt the effects of the unwinding for months. Will’s departure left a great void in my heart, as I fear it will leave in this history, where he does not come under notice again for some time. His prophecy with respect to his father was fulfilled within the week; but I have nothing to do with that event. I got not a word from my old friend after he left, which I took to be a bad sign, for I remembered hearing him one day remark that, if he happened to leave home, none of his companions should hear from him unless he had good news to send, or something to relate equal in interest to the capture of a wild elephant or a fight with a tiger.

Man tires of much talk about himself; and I do not think anyone would undertake to write an autobiography except on consideration that others whom he came in contact with would figure largely in the work. Of greatest interest to me has that been which I have learned from observing other people’s excellences and defects. In the life of the ordinary young preacher there is a good deal of sameness; his history this week will be his history the next, and few are the circumstances of which a description would be specially interesting to anybody but himself. And yet, as I said in the first chapter of this history, the occurrences of a commonplace life are so commonplace that no one has thought it worth his while to reduce them to writing. There are thousands of verses and popular sayings which accurately reflect the feelings and experiences of the common people. They are neither poetical nor “inspired,” and no one knows their authors. Some one composed even the expressions “Good Morning” and “Good Night.” But who? There is nothing “inspired” in these and the like, their only distinction being the universality of sentiment they convey. And yet they are immortal! We, the common people, use the same words and phrases every day in a thousand different places and circumstances, without tiring of them or dreaming of accusing each other of being trite. If the weather happen to be genial, how many thousand tongues are there ready to say it is “fine,” and do say so as if it were the most original remark ever made? The same man will say it is “fine” twenty times in the day, the last time with as much emphasis as the first. I almost believe it is the commonest things that possess the most real and lasting interest. The hale man never tires of the loaf which is on the table three or four times a day, while there is reason to think a “club feast,” even once a week, would surfeit him.

Although nothing particular, as the saying is, happened for some time in my history after that which I have noted in the previous chapter that could not be said to have happened in the life of nearly every young preacher, and although I am now skipping a whole year of my life, I cannot see that a minute account of the period would be uninteresting, if I could only summon up courage to describe every day events, and provided the description were “true to nature,” as W. B. expressed it. Talking of courage, you must have courage to call a spade a spade. The misfortune is that everybody should be conscious everybody else knows—or ought to know—the spade’s name, and it is, therefore, never mentioned. Has not every young Calvinistic Methodist preacher lost some hours’ sleep in fear and trembling at the thought of the night on which the two emissaries of the Monthly Meeting are to come over to pump and cross-question him? And was he never disappointed after the event? Were not his examiners much less formidable than he had in his mind portrayed them, and their questions much easier to answer than he had feared? How did he feel after preaching his first sermon? Was it not as if he had drained himself dry, and would never be equal to another. Did he not find that the sermon in delivery was a very different thing from what it was on paper? Did he not discover here and there a hole and hiatus in it of the existence of which he was not aware before he came to deliver it? In preaching, has he not been painfully conscious that his sermon became thinner towards the end, and concluded raggedly and abruptly? Many a Sabbath night, in his bedroom, has he not felt small and humiliated at the notion of how much more he had thought of those who would admire than of those who would believe him? Has he not fallen in his own estimation when his congregation was but the night and God? Has he not, hundreds of times, despaired of reaching that most enviable stage at which he can exclude every selfish consideration and sink himself in one all-absorbing desire to serve God and benefit his fellow- men Did he not at one time feel over- much delicacy in permitting certain matter-of-fact things—the tithe for instance—to have a place in his calculations? And did he not find himself one day familiarised with the taking of such things into account? Has he not been often astonished to think how much he is like other people who have not professed as he has? What idea had he of the Monthly Meeting before becoming personally acquainted therewith? Did he find that ancient institution the hallowed one he had expected? He knew, of course, that everybody present was either preacher or deacon; but did he not form some foolish notion that they were almost as the angels? More closely acquainted with them, has he not marvelled how like they were to other folk, and especially himself? Has he not come to regard the occasion as on one which he made the discovery that they actually ate and drank like other people—to say the least? That some could laugh quite heartily? That others could converse in whispers while one of the brethren was at prayer at commencement or conclusion of service? Aye, has he not seen some who lost their tempers? He had been in the habit of thinking highly, had he not, of——as wondrously spiritual and devotional? Did he think quite so highly of him on finding that he stayed in the chapel-house for a smoke until the brother finished the prayer which commences meeting? Returning from service, was he not on better terms with himself; did he not console himself with the reflection, “We were all made from the same clay; we all of us have our weaknesses?” What is his experience in respect of the members of the Monthly Meeting? Has he not found that the ablest and holiest were his best and truest friends, and those who did most in his behalf? Were they not the little ones in Christ who were least faithful to, and most discouraged, him? When he preached to the county ministers, were not they he feared most those who were most considerate and cheering; and those whom he feared least the most patronising and contemptuous? In going about to preach, Sunday after Sunday, has he not been more than once dismayed to find himself so cooled down as to be able to do the work mechanically? Was he not disappointed to find that preaching did not kill his own sin? Has the sacred calling never placed new temptations in his path and roused some natural tendencies which had till then lain dormant? Has he not often feared that his preaching produced effects which were more beneficial to other people than to himself? Has he not frequently observed that he was not so sanctified and spotless as he 5;new some people took him to be? And has he not thanked God a hundred times that his hearers did not know his state of mind and heart as well as he himself did? Having ascertained that some had thought too highly of him, has he taken the pains to undeceive them? Having found that others held the same opinion of him that he did of himself, has he not been angry with them? Has he not regarded those whom he knew to think well of him as men of penetration and ability; and those who have thought differently as wanting in judgment? After a flat and unprofitable Sabbath, has he never determined to preach no more And after a happy one, has he not rejoiced that he did not give his resolution effect? Despite the painful sense of selfishness and depravity which has occasioned him so much anguish, do not the hints he sometimes gets that he has been of good afford him a pleasure he can neither value nor describe? Has he not been able, on occasion, to say: “Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their corn and their wine increased.” These are but ordinary factors in every young preacher’s experience, and a chapter could be written on each of them; but who has ever done so? They are of such common occurrence, as already stated, that nobody has thought them worth the setting down in writing. I had intended once to describe them in detail, but I see from the size of this autobiography that I, too, like my predecessors, will be obliged to leave the work to someone else.

I had preached almost regularly every Sunday for about eighteen months, had been received a member of the Monthly Meeting and had passed the examination for admission into college. I was perfectly well aware that I did not “shine,” as the saying is; but my conscience was easy that I had done my best. Although my poor old mother, in her day, considered she had done well by giving me “a whole twelvemonth’s” schooling, I felt I had to fight almost every step with greater vigour, diligence and assiduity, on account of my not having received in early youth much more instruction than the cane of Soldier Robin was able to impart. And yet I was encouraged to go on by the kindness of friends, particularly of my master, Abel Hughes. So backward did I find myself that I dreaded mixing among young men of good education, and I am certain I should not have dreamt of going to college if Abel had not kept that constantly as a goal before my mind, and urged me forward. I came out of the examination about the middle of the class, and after that it was useless to think of turning back. I had but little money by me, having spent nearly all my earnings on books and clothes. I depended for the necessary college supply on the promise made me by Abel Hughes, and trusted wholly that my master would, silently and unostentatiously, help me. He was my bosom friend, and had repeatedly renewed his promise to me in confidential converse. I knew he had not mentioned his good intentions towards me even to his own sister. When he did a kindness, his delicacy and his respect for the feelings of the receiver were so great that I often fancied he would like to have been able to conceal his charity even from himself. I noticed, many times, that in handing an aim to a beggar he would talk of something else, as if endeavouring to divert his own attention and the recipient’s from what he was doing with his hand. I remember well one night in August, about a fortnight before the time I meant to go to College, I was preparing for the journey, and feeling a little fidgetty, never having been more than two nights together from home in all my life. I had just shut shop, and my master Abel was sitting on the sofa near the parlour window. He seemed fatigued, sad, and languid. He at once began to talk of my going to college. Seeing me put my hat on, he asked me where I was bound for, and I replied I had promised to call on Thomas Bartley.

“Will you be long?” he asked.

“I don’t think I shall be,” was my response, with the addition: “What is it, sir? Would you like me to stay in?”

“Not on any account,” he rejoined. “But I do not feel like myself at all to-night, somehow.”

“I’ll stay,” I observed. ‘I can go to the Tump to-morrow night.”

Abel, however, insisted I should not. “There isn’t much the matter with me,” he went on. ‘I’ll be better directly, and I expect Marg’ret in every minute. Thomas Bartley, doubtless, will be waiting you.”

As I was going through the doorway he called after me. “Wait a minute; one never knows what may happen,” he said, opening a cupboard close by, taking out his cashbox, unlocking it, and drawing from it one or two bank notes, which he suddenly replaced, with the observation: “What is the matter with me? Am I getting childish, or what? Isn’t there a fortnight yet? Away you go; never mind me, and make haste back.”

On the road to the Tump I could not help thinking there was something strange in Abel’s demeanour that night, and I resolved to return soon, in consequence. But once under the Bartley roof-tree it was no easy matter to come away quickly, To do so without taking supper was, I immediately saw, altogether out of the question; for hardly had I sat down before Thomas threw a threatening glance at the ham on the ceiling. His best welcome always was a ham-and-egg tea, and a prince’s need not have been better. Amongst many others I remember the following observations of Thomas Bartley, made in the course of that visit.

“Mighty nourishin’ food, look you, ham and eggs is, if you have the right quality. I wouldn’t give a fig for a cart load of this American stuff. How can you tell what they fatten their pigs on, poor critters? I don’t know how these town’s folk venter to eat eggs. D’ye know what I heard my cousin Ned say he’d seen with his own eyes once in quite a ’spectable house in Liverpool? This is his story: at breakfast time the maid would bring in about a dozen boiled eggs, and place ’em on the table. And there would the family go breakin’ one after another and smellin’ ’em, and the girl carryin’ ’em back as fast as she could, until at last, p’r’aps, they might find two or three out of the dozen fit to eat. But the odd thing was, they thought nothing about it—they did the same every day. Well, tie to their hearts, say I. Barbara, let’s have them eggs on the middle shelf, between the plates there, right opposite you; yes, that’s them. Those was laid to-day—they’re the game hens’, So you’ve made up your mind to go to Bala, then? D’ye know what? We’ll be very sorry to miss you, won’t we Barbara?”

Barbara nodded.

“Yes; to be shŵar. I’ve never been to Bala nor anywhere else up north; and I don’t know nobody there, either, ’cept the two men as comes here fair days, sellin’ stockings about the streets; and decent men enough they are. I’d like awful to go to Bala, for once in my life, if it was only to see the lake the man walked over after it was frozen. It was a fearful time, that. When he found out what he had done he died on the spot. I heard James Pulford recite a poem to Bala once, composed by Robin Ddu. I don’t remember it, though. ‘Bala went, and Bala’ll go’—something like that it began— you’ll hear it, I dare say, when you get there. I rec’lect father sayin’ of a thing which was quite safe that it was right as Bala bell. Jest you take notice of it when you get there. D’ye know what? if we hear of a cheap excursion Babara and 1 wouldn’t mind one awl-tip comin’ to look you up. You wish we would, eh? I know very well you’d like to see us. Pitch into it, lad; I don’t see you eat much; you’ve a hundred welcomes, as you know. Are there many at Bala larnin’ to preach? What is it you say? They don’t larn to preach there? O! well, indeed, say so; ’cause I’ve hard some of ’em who came down here, and I found nothing extra about ’em—to my taste. I’d rather hear William Hughes of Abercwmnant nor the best of ’em. But then, I ain’t much of a judge. Well, what in the blessed world do they larn there if they don’t larn to preach?”

“Languages, Thomas Bartley,” I replied.

“Haha! what languages? tell us.”

“Latin and Greek,” said I.

“Hoho! I see it now! Fear they’ll have to go missionaries and so that they might be able to preach to the Blacks, ain’t it? Proper, indeed. You don’t want to go out to the Blacks, do you? I thought not. Can you tell me what’s the reason so few of em goes to India to preach to the Blacks after they’ve larnt the languages in college? They tell me there’s scores of Blacks there as never hard a word about Jesus. That’s an awful pity. They may’s well not larn the languages if they don’t preach in ’em. I might’s well not go ’prentice to a shoemaker if I didn’t think of makin’ shoes afterwards. You haven’t finished, surely? Take another cup of tea, man. Well, it’s your own fault. But it’s of the languages I was talking—what did you call ’em? To be shŵar, Latin and Greek—the language of the Blacks, isn’t it?”

“No, Thomas; Latin and Greek are not the language of the Blacks,” I answered.

“Whose language, then?” he asked.

“Oh, the languages of old people who’ve been dead for centuries,” responded I.

“Dead men’s languages! What in the blessed world do you want to larn the languages of dead folk for? Is it makin’ fun of me you are, say, like your brother Bob used to?”

“I am telling you the honest truth, Thomas,” I replied. “The languages are learnt for their own sakes and for the treasures they contain.”

“Well, if I never took another hop a-hoeing, this is the queerest thing I’ve hard of! I had always thought a language was somethin’ to be spoken. Tell me, which is the Black’s language? They must, surely, larn that, or they can’t go missionaries.”

“The language of the Blacks is not taught in college, Thomas Bartley. The missionaries must go to the Blacks themselves to learn that,” said I.

Well, if ever I hard such a thing with my ears before! Larnin’ the languages of people who are dead and not larnin’ the languages of people who are alive! But since we’ve begun talkin’ of the thing, what else do they larn, tell me?” he went on.

“They learn mathematics,” I returned.

“Matthew Mattiss! and what may that be?”

“How to measure and weigh and make all sorts of calculations, and things of that sort,” said I.

“A handy thing enough,” remarked Thomas, “That’s the reason, I s’pose, why so many preachers turn farmers and shopkeepers. Do they larn anything else there?”

“English language and history,” I replied.

“Proper,” observed Thomas. ‘If a man doesn’t know a bit of English in these days he’s bound to be left behind. And history is an interestin’ thing enough. One of the best I ever heard at it was James Pulford the tailor. When I used to go to public houses I doated on that man. There’s nothin’ better I like in a sermon than a bit of history. When Barbara and I’ve forgotten everythin’ else, we’ll have a pretty fair grip of the story the preacher’s told. But, for all that, I don’t find those college boys any great shakes at tellin’ a story. William Hughes, of Abercwmnant, beats ’em flyin’. D’ye know what? William, last time he was here, told a story of a little girl dyin’ which I shan’t forget’s long as there’s breath in me. If I was to drop dead on the spot I couldn’t help cryin’ while he was tellin’ it. I’m glad in my heart they larn history in college; only some of’m are dreadful long a larnin.’ There was a lad of a preacher here lately who had been three years in college so they said; but I couldn’t for the life of me make head nor tail of him. He spoke of some ‘mechanism,’ ‘unity,’ or something which I couldn’t make top nor bottom of. But, tell me—I almost forgot, and I knew I had somethin’ to ask you—what sort of livin’ do they get there? Pretty good, I should think.”

“They don’t provide for any one, Thomas. Each must provide for himself,” replied I.

“But how in the world do the boys get along? Are they lowed so much a week to live on?” he asked.

Oh, no,” said I, “Every one has to find his own food, drink, lodging and washing. They’re permitted to go about preaching, and on the little they get for that they live.”

“Never’ll I go to Caerwys fair again, if that college isn’t the rummest place /‘ve hard talk of!’ observed Thomas. “The boys, you say, don’t larn to preach there; they don’t larn the language of the Blacks, only the language of some old people’s bin dead for cent’ries; they don’t get any pay, everybody livin’ on his own hook, starve or not; and the only thing worth talkin’ of they do larn is History and that other thing—what did you call it? Matthew——? to be shŵar, Matthew Mattis. What in the wide world do you want to go there for, say? Do they larn anythin’ about Jesus Christ there? I didn’t hear you mention it.”

“Doubtless they do, Thomas,” replied I; “but the place is almost as strange to me as it is to you.”

“Most the pity. If I were you I’d go a month on trial and take my food with me. D’ye know what? It’s just this minute struck me that every one I’ve seen comin’ here from college preachin’ looked half starved; and it’s not a bit of wonder after what you’ve told me ’bout the way they manage there. The longer he lives, the more a man hears, the more he perceives. I always thought the college an uncommon nice place, though I used to wonder why all the boys, poor things, looked so pale and dispirited. I fancied they were only a bit nervous, like a witness in the box, and that if I was to see ’em on the Monday mornin’ I’d find ’em all right, p’r’aps. But they must have bin gettin’ better livin’ there at one time, ‘cause I remember, when a lad, happ’nin’ to go to chapel; and who should be preachin’ but John Jones, of Llanllyfni—it was in college he was at that time, I should fancy—and his two cheeks was like the rose. Tell us: if you didn’t happen to have a call to preach for a month or two after goin’ to college, what’d become of you?”

“Well,” I replied, “I must trust to Providence.”

“I never saw good in that story,” rejoined Thomas. “God helps those as helps themselves. There was a man livin’ in this neighbourhood a while since—before your time—and he was a bit of a believer too—the most careless man about his own affairs I ever saw, and he was always talkin’ of trust in Providence. But do yow know where he died? In Holywell workhouse, poor fellow! In a manner of speakin’, I almost wish you hadn’t told me the kind of place that college is; ’cause after you’ve gone there, Barbara and I’ll be always thinkin’ whether you get enough to eat or not. I see you leavin’ a good place and venterin’ into the upper country where they lives hard—as the stockin’ers used to tell me. For my part I don’t see the game is worth the candle. I wouldn’t ha’ cared so much if they only larnt to preach there. But you know what’st best for yourself, and it isn’t my business to interfere. If your mother was alive, though, I doubt if she’d “low you to go. What does Abel say Is he for your goin’?”

“Oh yes,” I replied. “Abel is anxious I should.”

“Well, I’ll give in to him. He’s a reg’lar caution, Abel is. I never knew him make a mistake,” observed Thomas.

“Mentioning Abel, Thomas Bartley,” I returned, “makes me think it is time for me to go. Abel is not over well to-night, and I promised to be back soon.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Thomas said. “Hope it’s; nothin” serious. I don’t know what’d become of us in that, chapel if somethin’ was to happen to the old sarja majar. We should be all higgledy-piggledy. D’ye know what? When your mother was alive it was as good’s a sermon to hear those two talk. They never spoke of ‘mechanism’ and things of that sort, only of Jesus Christ, and heaven; and I a-takin’ of it all in, like a sow in the barley. I would’nt a tired of them the whole night, long, and I hated to see Abel get up to go, for I felt as if I. hadn’t had half enough, Do you know what I used to do I hope it was no sin, but whenever I saw Abel comin’ I turned. back the clock-hand half an hour. ’Twouldn’t have done for your mother to catch me, she was so guzzact in things of that sort, you know. Well, I won’t keep you, since Abel’s out of sorts. Remember us both to him. Good night! Stay! here you are, as long’s you’re determined to go to college, take a piece of this flitch of bacon and welcome. We shall have quite enough left. Well, well; it’s your own fault if you don’t. You know you’re a hundred times welcome. Good night.”

I was glad to get away, to enjoy a roar, as Will Bryan used to say. If Will had been there, I thought, what a splendid account he would have given of my chat with the “old thoroughbred Thomas Bartley,” as he called him! A hundred reminiscences came to mind, as I hurried along homewards, of the way in which Bob was able to smooth the wrinkles in mother’s serious, care-worn face, after a visit paid to Thomas Bartley’s house to “draw him out.” Bob could mimic the old shoemaker to the life; and I know him making mother angry with herself, because she had been compelled to laugh in her own despite. It may be that there are moments in the life of every man when he seems demented. Had I been photographed that night, swiftly striding past the Hall Park, my face would have presented a strange look, as I laughed and cried, alternately. Thinking the matter over, now, I am surprised to find that Thomas Bartley had so much to do with the principal events of my life. But little did I imagine at the moment of my return from the Tump I should ever have to recall that night save as a means of amusement for my companions.

I had left the Corner Shop barely an hour and a half, and was within a few yards of it on my return, when I met Jones, who had been searching for me, everywhere save at the Tump. He told me Abel was dreadfully ill. What else he may have said I never knew, for the next minute I was in my dear old master’s room. I shall never forgive myself for leaving him that night. I found him reclining on the sofa whore I had left him when I went out. Sitting on a chair by his side was Doctor Bennett, or, as we called him, the works’ doctor, behind whom, at the head of the sofa, was Miss Hughes making desperate efforts to hide her heart-beats. The scene is vividly present to my mind; how can I forget it? With her left arm, which seemed tenderness itself embodied, Miss Hughes supported the patriarchal head of the only man she had ever loved with all her heart, while her right hand held a glass containing some kind of cordial which her brother refused to, or rather could not, take, I think there were two other women in the room, but I do not remember who they were. Until then, I would not have believed it possible a man could undergo such a change in so short a time without being externally assailed. The “fine old fellow,” as Will Bryan called him, had sunk, one helpless inert mass, his glory all departed, like some mighty tower whose foundations had been struck by lightning. The face, beaming with reason, intelligence and amiability but two hours since, was now like that of an imbecile in his cups. The tongue, which never once spoke aught that was not sensible and instructive, had now forgotten its office, and there came nothing from the lips of its owner save some inarticulate sound like the stridulous notes of the deaf-mute. His right arm excepted, my master’s body was completely paralysed. I had been in the room some minutes before he took any notice of me. When he saw me he was visibly agitated, and began to cry like a child. Pointing to me, and then to the cupboard, he tried hard to speak. I knew well enough what he meant, but took upon me not to understand him. Again and again did he endeavour to make his wishes clear. The doctor asked me if I could tell what he wanted, and I said—well, I said that which was not true, namely, that I did not know. It was manifest to all in the room that Abel wished to say something to me. I knew perfectly well what it was. But, supposing I had told the doctor and Miss Hughes it was my master’s wish that I should be given some of those bank notes from the cash box, would they not have contradicted me? I was certain, however—as certain as that I am writing the words at this moment—that that was his one and only wish. I believed he still retained his intellectual faculties unimpaired, but that the media through which, for five and seventy years, they had made themselves known, had refused obedience any longer. Time and again he tried to talk to mo and, failing, broke into tears. The doctor told me I had better leave the room, since it was clear mv presence disturbed the sufferer. But I respectfully declined. I had left him, once, when I ought not, and I was not going to do so again. It was hard, indeed, on me. My heart bled with pity for the best, tenderest, godliest man I had ever known. It was in my power to set his mind at rest by revealing his desire; and it was most important to me personally that I should do so, for my future, to a great extent, depended upon it. But I dared not do this without throwing suspicion upon my motives. Silently and earnestly I prayed that my master might have strength to speak; but every minute, as it were, bore him farther away, and diminished our hope of his ever again being able to commune with us. With much trouble we got him to bed, where every possible means were used to restore him, but without avail. As I said, he had not wholly lost the use of his right arm. I sat by the bedside, tiny hand in his. He lay for hours, as if in happy sleep, only, when I tried to withdraw my hand, he turned uneasily. The doctor, saying he might remain in that state for days, went away, promising to return in the morning. Miss Hughes, who was persuaded to retire to rest, seeing she could do nothing for her brother, had procured an experienced nurse to stay up with me to watch the sick man. The weather was warm, the place still, and presently the “experienced nurse” fell fast asleep. Dr. Bennett had not the slightest hope of my dear old master’s recovery; neither, any longer, had I, ale though I earnestly prayed God—not with any selfish purpose —that his tongue might be loosened, were it only for a minute. Was I heard? If I said yes, who would believe me? I had been watching an hour, for two hours, and the “experienced nurse” sleeping for exactly the same space of time. The breathings of my beloved old benefactor were so light and soft, that I feared he had passed. I gently let go his hand. He awoke, peacefully as a child in its cot, looked at me, and said—well, I never repeated those few words to any living soul; because I thought Doctor Bennett might pronounce the thing impossible, or that I had been dreaming; while others might say I had a selfish motive in telling the story; and others that the whole was but animal magnetism. It matters not in the least, by this time. I know this much—I made no use of his words to gain my own ends; but I treasure them up in my heart as a remembrance of how true he was to me in his last moments. A minute later his spirit had crossed the great gulf. And in the whole annals of Death, I believe there never entered its dark portal a more just, more faithful, or more perfect man, but One.