No religionist or moralist, has ever, with all their fine theories, been able to prevent this dread, this indefinable, choking pain at the heart, when our loved ones are going, O so far away! I could neither eat, sleep or rest. It seemed as if a part of myself was dying, going away from me. Under all the hardening influences of my life I have made a constant endeavor to keep my heart tender to the ennobling influence of real friendship. I have had bitterness enough, and it is well there was something to keep me from utter hardness and despair. Our dear friend received our unremitting attention. The last moment was approaching. My wife and I, with others, were around his couch, while a crowd was outside, waiting with bowed heads, in solemn silence, his departure. Opening his eyes, with a smile upon his face, he pressed my hand, and whispered with gasping breath: “I’m going—God—bless—you—all,” and he had gone. As the sorrowful word was quickly passed outside, some one on the veranda started the hymn, “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,” and all joined in it with sobbing, weeping tones. This was the great second death in my life. Need I say that the first was that of my best friend, the one of my youth, Mr. Percy. Never had any one lost two better friends. My mother? Yes, my darling mama had gone. She had never died to me, only gone away, and I had not seen her go, too young to realize what it meant, however bereaved I was. At evening time we laid his body to rest in the garden, in front of the building he had done so much to erect. Every one, from the oldest to the youngest, had gone into the garden, his garden, and plucked flowers that he had cultivated for us, and now for his own burial, and one by one, they came up and strewed them upon the coffin with sobs and lamentations. Then we all sang, as best we could through our tears, his favorite hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer to Thee.” The shades of night fell on us, while we lingered at the sacred, hallowed spot. On the next Sunday morning, we had a solemn remembrance service in our lecture room, which was festooned with flowers that our friend loved so well, intertwined with mourning cloth to signify our love and joy in him, as well as our great sorrow. It seemed to be conceded by mutual consent, that I should give a eulogy—no that would not have pleased him—an address or talk, in remembrance of him. This was a service of devotion, of joy, that we had known such a man, and of the deepest grief that we had lost him, for each could truthfully say “None knew thee but to love thee, None named thee but to praise!”