The busiest streets of New York, through which the funeral procession passed on its way to Greenwood Cemetery, beyond the East River, were closed to business and hung in black. The flags on all public buildings, and on the ships in the harbor, were at half-mast. The bells of all churches were tolled. The whole city mourned, as it had not done since, eighty years before, the funeral procession of George Washington moved through its streets. If we seek, without affectionate prejudice, to discover the cause of this universal grief, affection, and admiration, we shall find, I think, that it lies chiefly in two circumstances; namely, the character of Peter Cooper as a lover of his kind, and the opportunity afforded him by his long life, not only to prove that character, but to become personally known to many thousands of those whom he sought unselfishly to serve. Few persons except military commanders have such an opportunity. The philanthropists who labor in secret, no matter with what noble motive, and do not come face to face with their beneficiaries, may win the applause of posterity, but cannot expect to receive the immediate and personal affection of their contemporaries. Least of all do posthumous gifts arouse this sentiment. Peter Cooper, above all other claims to renown and gratitude, identified himself with his philanthropy, and was known where he was loved. "Who gives himself with his gift, feeds three: Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me!" * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original text had the list of books first and then the first title page. These were reversed so that the title occurs first in this edition. Page xii, "8" changed to "6" (6. This experience)