He was an American--proud of his country, that was and ever will be proud of him. He did not find perfection only in other lands. He did not grow small and shrunken, withered and apologetic, in the presence of those upon whom greatness had been thrust by chance. He could not be overawed by dukes or lords, nor flattered into vertebrate-less subserviency by the patronizing smiles of kings. In the midst of conventionalities he had the feeling of suffocation. He believed in the royalty of man, in the sovereignty of the citizen, and in the matchless greatness of this Republic. He was of the classic mould--a figure from the antique world. He had the pose of the great statues--the pride and bearing of the intellectual Greek, of the conquering Roman, and he stood in the wide free air as though within his veins there flowed the blood of a hundred kings. And as he lived he died. Proudly he entered the darkness--or the dawn--that we call death. Unshrinkingly he passed beyond our horizon, beyond the twilight's purple hills, beyond the utmost reach of human harm or help--to that vast realm of silence or of joy where the innumerable dwell, and he has left with us his wealth of thought and deed--the memory of a brave, imperious, honest man, who bowed alone to death. A TRIBUTE TO RICHARD H. WHITING. New York, May 24., 1888. MY FRIENDS: The river of another life has reached the sea. Again we are in the presence of that eternal peace that we call death. My life has been rich in friends, but I never had a better or a truer one than he who lies in silence here. He was as steadfast, as faithful, as the stars. Richard H. Whiting was an absolutely honest man. His word was gold--his promise was fulfillment--and there never has been, there never will be, on this poor earth, any thing nobler than an honest, loving soul. This man was as reliable as the attraction of gravitation--he knew no shadow of turning. He was as generous as autumn, as hospitable as summer, and as tender as a perfect day in June. He forgot only himself, and asked favors only for others. He begged for the opportunity to do good--to stand by a friend, to support a cause, to defend what he believed to be right. He was a lover of nature--of the woods, the fields and flowers. He was a home-builder. He believed in the family and the fireside--in the sacredness of the hearth. He was a believer in the religion of deed, and his creed was to do good. No man has ever slept in death who nearer lived his creed. I have known him for many years, and have yet to hear a word spoken of him except in praise. His life was full of honor, of kindness and of helpful deeds. Besides all, his soul was free. He feared nothing, except to do wrong. He was a believer in the gospel of help and hope. He knew how much better, how much more sacred, a kind act is than any theory the brain has wrought.