During the evening, when the people of Shawmut Church were present, a hundred or more strong, their former and latter chief servant being with them, a silver casket, with twenty half eagles in it, was presented by Dr. W. E. Barton, with choice and fitting words. So deeply affected was this man Carleton, so noted for his self-mastery, that, for a moment, those who knew him best were shot through as by a shaft of foreboding, lest, then and there, the horses and chariot of fire might come for the prophet. A quarter of a minute's pause, understood by most present as nothing more than a natural interval between presentation speech and reply, and then Carleton, as fully as his emotion would admit, uttered fitting words of response.

The "banquet hall deserted," the photographic camera was brought into requisition, and pleasant souvenirs of a grand occasion were made. Everything joyously planned had been happily carried out. This was the culminating event in the life of a good man, to the making of whom, race, ancestry, parentage, wife, home, friends, country, and opportunity had contributed, and to all of which and whom, under God, Carleton often made grateful acknowledgments.

It was but a fortnight after this event, in which I participated with such unalloyed pleasure, that the telegraphic yellow paper, with its type-script message, announced that the earthly house of the tabernacle of Carleton's spirit had been dissolved, and that his building of God, the "house not made with hands," had been entered.

The story of Carleton's last thirteen days on earth is soon told. He had written a little upon his new story. For the Boston Journal he had penned an article calling attention to the multiplying "sky-scraper" houses, and the need of better fire-apparatus. He had, with the physician's sanction, agreed to address on Monday evening, March 2d, the T. Starr King Unitarian Club of South Boston, on "Some Recollections of a War Correspondent."

Carleton's last Sunday on earth was as one of "the days of heaven upon earth." It was rich to overflowing with joyous experiences. It is now ours to see that the shadows of his sunset of life were pointing to the eternal morning.

It was the opening day of spring. At Shawmut Church, in holy communion, he, with others, celebrated the love of his Saviour and Friend. To Carleton, it was a true Eucharist. A new vision of the cross and its meaning seemed to dawn upon his soul. At the supper-table, conversation turned upon Christ's obedience unto death, his great reconciliation of man to God, his power to move men, the crucifixion, and its meaning. Carleton said, after expressing his deep satisfaction with Doctor Barton's morning sermon, and his interpretation of the atonement, that he regarded Christ's life as the highest exhibition of service. By his willing death on the cross, Jesus showed himself the greatest and best of all servants of man, while thus joyfully doing his Father's will. On that day of rest, Carleton seemed to dwell in an almost transfigurating atmosphere of delight in his Master.

On Sunday night husband and wife enjoyed a quiet hour, hand in hand, before the wood fire. The sunlight and warmth of years gone by, coined into stick and fagots from the forest, were released again in glow and warmth, making playful lights and warning shadows. The golden minutes passed by. The prattle of lovers and the sober wisdom of experience blended. Then, night's oblivion. Again, the cheerful morning meal and the merry company, the incense of worship, and the separation of each and all to the day's toil.

Carleton sat down in his study room to write. He soon called his wife, complaining of a distressing pain in his stomach. He was advised to go to bed, and did so. The physician, Dr. A. L. Kennedy, was sent for. "How is your head?" asked Doctor Kennedy.

"If it were not for this pain, I should get up and write," answered Carleton.

With the consent of the physician he rose from the couch and walked the room for awhile for relief. Then returning, as he was about to lie down again, he fell over. Quickly unconscious, he passed away. Science would call the immediate cause of death apoplexy.

Thus died at his post, as he would have wished, the great war correspondent, traveller, author, statesman, and friend of man and God. He had lived nearly three years beyond the allotted period of three score and ten.

Two days later, while the flag over the public schoolhouse in Brookline drooped at half-mast, and Carleton's picture was wreathed with laurels, at the request of the scholars themselves, in the impressive auditorium of Shawmut Church, Carleton's body lay amid palms and lilies in the space fronting the pulpit. At his head and at his feet stood a veteran-sentinel from the John A. Andrew Post of the Grand Army of the Republic. These were relieved every quarter of an hour, during the exercises, by comrades who had been detailed for a service which they were proud to render to one who had so well told their story and honored them so highly. It was entirely a voluntary offering on the part of the veterans to pay this tribute of regard, which was as touching as it was unostentatious.

Nowhere in the church edifice were there any of the usual insignia of woe. The dirge was at first played to express the universal grief in the music of the organ, but it soon melted into In Memoriam and hymns of triumph. The quartet sang "Jesus Reigns," a favorite hymn of Carleton's, to music which he had himself composed only two years before.

It reminded me of the burst of melody which, from the belfry of the church in a Moravian town, announces the soul's farewell to earth and birth into heaven.

In the audience which filled the pews downstairs were men and women eminent in every walk of life, representatives of clubs, societies, and organizations. Probably without a single exception, all were sincere mourners, while yet rejoicing in a life so nobly rounded out. In the pulpit sat two of the pastors of Shawmut Church, and Dr. Arthur Little, friend of Carleton's boyhood, and a near relative. The eulogies were discriminating.

The addresses, with the prayers offered and the tributes made in script or print, with some letters of condolence received by Mrs. Coffin, and a remarkable interesting biographical sketch from The Congregationalist, by Rev. Howard A. Bridgman, have been gathered in a pamphlet published by George H. Wright, Harcourt Street, Boston.

From this pamphlet we extract the following:

After prayer and a brief silence, Dr. Little said:

"There are few men, I think, engrossed in the affairs of life, for an entire generation, to whom the Word of God was so vital and so precious as to our friend, Mr. Coffin. Let us open this Word, and listen while God speaks to us, in Ps. 23; Ps. 39: 4, 13; Ps. 46: 1, 5, 7.

"I will read from Ezekiel 26: 1-5, which was a favorite word with Mr. Coffin, and the passage which he himself read, as he was journeying in the Eastern land, at the very spot concerning which the prophecy is uttered. Mr. Coffin was sitting there with his open Bible, and saw the literal fulfilment of this prophecy,—the fishermen spreading the nets in the very neighborhood where he was sitting."

The continued readings were from John 11: 21, 23; John 14: 19; 2 Cor. 5: 1, 8; Rev. 21: 1; Rev. 22: 5; 1 Cor. 15: 51, 57. The quartet sang "In My Father's Arms Enfolded."

Dr. Barton then read a letter from Rev. E. B. Webb, D. D., who was unable to be present. The following are the closing paragraphs. They recall the Oriental travels enjoyed by pastor and parishioner in company.

"Together we visited the home of Mary and Martha, and the tomb from which the Life-Giver called forth Lazarus to a new and divine life. We stood in Gethsemane, by the old olive-trees, beneath the shadows of which the Saviour of men prayed, and sweat, as it were, great drops of blood. We climbed together to the top of the Mount of Olives, and looked up into the deep heavens to which he ascended, and abroad to the city over which he wept; and both our words and our silence told how real it all was, and how the significance of it entered into our lives.

"From the city we journeyed northward,—up past Bethel, where Jacob saw a new vision, and got a new heart, and on, past the blue waters of Galilee, and across the great plain,—battle-ground of the ancient nations,—and over the Lebanons to Damascus and Baalbec, and then to the sea, and homeward thence; and always and everywhere scrutinizing the present, or reaching back into the past; drinking from the sparkling waters of Abana and Pharpar, or searching for the wall over which Paul was let down in a basket; impressed by the ruins of half-buried temples and cities, or looking forward, with sublime faith in the prophecy and promise, to the time when all things shall be made new;—Carleton was always the same thoughtful, genial, courteous companion and sympathizing friend.

"I honored, loved, and esteemed the man. His life is a beautiful example of devout Christian steadfastness. The history of his small beginnings, gradual increase, and final success, is one to inspire noble endeavor, and ensure reward. He honored the church, and the church does well to honor him.

"Affectionately yours, "E. B. Webb."

The Rev. Dr. Little paid a warm tribute to the memory of his friend:

"At eleven years of age he [Carleton] entered the church. Think of it! Sixty-three years devoted to the service of his Lord and Master! He seems to me to be an illustration of a man who, when he is equal to it, finds a hard physical environment united with a wholesome moral and spiritual environment of supreme advantage. To a weak nature it would very likely mean only failure, but to a man of the heroic mould of Mr. Coffin it meant opportunity, and it only nerved him to more strenuous effort; and it was everything to him that the atmosphere in the home, the community, and the church was what it was,—so warm, so Christian, so spiritual, so sympathetic, and so suited to furnish just the right conditions for the moulding of his very responsive and susceptible nature.

"And then he possessed what I think might very well be called the spirit of aggressiveness, or, possibly better, the spirit of sanctified self-assertion. He never thought of self-assertion for his own sake, or for the sake of honor or promotion, but he had in him a kind of push and an earnestness of purpose—you might almost say audacity—that somehow stirred him and prompted him always to be in the place of greatest advantage at a given time for the service of others. He seemed always to be just at the point of supreme advantage in a crisis, just where he could give the world, at the right time, and in the best way, the fullest report of a battle, or a conference, or any other matters of supreme moment. This was characteristic of him. It appeared all through his New Hampshire life, and was indeed in part a native endowment."

After an address by the author of this volume on "Charles Carleton Coffin as a Historian," Dr. W. E. Barton, in felicitous diction, reviewed the earthly life of him with whose career many memories were then busy.

"Grief is no unusual thing. There is no heart here that has not known it. There is scarce a home where death has not entered. We weep the more sincerely with those that weep, because the intervals are not long between our own sorrows. The whole Commonwealth mourns to-day our chief magistrate. God comfort his family! God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts! God bless him in whose elevation to the Governor's chair Providence has anticipated the will of the people.

"A very tender sorrow brings us here to-day, and we turn for comfort to the Word of God.

"Text: With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.—Ps. 91: 16.

"It is not because of his unusual age that this text seems to me appropriate for the funeral of our friend. His years were but little more than threescore and ten, and his step was light, and his heart was young, and we hardly thought of him as an old man. Nor is it because his work seemed to us completed, that we think of the measure of his days as satisfied. His facile pen dropped upon a new page; and before him, as he ceased to labor, were tasks midway, and others just begun. It is because our first feeling is so unsatisfied, it is because there was so much more which he wished, and we wished him to do, and that we are constrained to measure the length of his life, and to find, if we may find, in spite of this sudden break in our hopes and his plans, a completion that can satisfy. Measured by its experiences and accomplishments, it may seem to us that this life, so abruptly terminated, was one whose length and symmetry well deserve to be considered a fulfilment of the promise of the text."

Following the prayer, Dr. Barton said:

"It was the purpose of our organist, Mr. Dunham, a true and honored friend of Mr. Coffin, to play, as the postlude to this service, the stateliest of funeral marches, but I dissuaded him. This is a Christian funeral. Our music is not a dirge, but a jubilate. The hope of our friend in life is ours for him in death. Instead of even the noblest funeral march expressing our own grief, there will be played the most triumphant of anthems, expressing his own victory over death,—Handel's matchless 'Hallelujah Chorus.'"

The organ then played the "Hallelujah Chorus," and the benediction was pronounced by Dr. Barton.

It had been intended to deposit the mortal relics of Carleton in the ancestral cemetery at Webster, N. H., the village next to Boscawen, but Providence interposed. After all preparations for travel and transportation had been made, heavy rains fell, which washed away bridges and so disturbed the ordinary condition of the roads in New Hampshire that the body had to be deposited in a vault at Brookline until a more convenient season for interment. Meanwhile, the soldiers of the Grand Army, adult friends, and even children, united in the wish that the grave of their friend and helper might be within easy reach of Boston, so that on the National Memorial Day, and at other times of visitation, the grassy mound might be accessible for the tribute of flowers. And so it eventuated that what was once mortal of Charles Carleton Coffin rests in Mount Auburn.

The memorial in stone will be a boulder transported from more northern regions ages ago and left by ice on land which belonged to Mrs. Coffin's grandfather. On this rugged New Hampshire granite will be inscribed the name of Charles Carleton Coffin, with the dates of his births into this world and the next.

Both of the man and this, his last memorial, we may say Deus fecit.

THE END.