He attacked the creed of New England--a creed that had within it the ferocity of Knox, the malice of Calvin, the cruelty of Jonathan Edwards--a religion that had a monster for a God--a religion whose dogmas would have shocked cannibals feasting upon babes. Horace Seaver followed the light of his brain--the impulse of his heart. He was attacked, but he answered the insulter with a smile; and even he who coined malignant lies was treated as a friend misled. He did not ask God to forgive his enemies--he forgave them himself. He was sincere. Sincerity is the true and perfect mirror of the mind. It reflects the honest thought. It is the foundation of character, and without it there is no moral grandeur. Sacred are the lips from which has issued only truth. Over all wealth, above all station, above the noble, the robed and crowned, rises the sincere man. Happy is the man who neither paints nor patches, veils nor veneers. Blessed is he who wears no mask. The man who lies before us wrapped in perfect peace, practiced no art to hide or half conceal his thought. He did not write or speak the double words that might be useful in retreat. He gave a truthful transcript of his mind, and sought to make his meaning clear as light. To use his own words, he had "the courage which impels a man to do his duty, to hold fast his integrity, to maintain a conscience void of offence, at every hazard and at every sacrifice, in defiance of the world." He lived to his ideal. He sought the approbation of himself. He did not build his character upon the opinions of others, and it was out of the very depths of his nature that he asked this profound question: "What is there in other men that makes us desire their approbation, and fear their censure more than our own?" Horace Seaver was a good and loyal citizen of the mental republic--a believer in, intellectual hospitality, one who knew that bigotry is born of ignorance and fear--the provincialisms of the brain. He did not belong to the tribe, or to the nation, but to the human race. His sympathy was wide as want, and, like the sky, bent above the suffering world. This man had that superb thing called moral courage--courage in its highest form. He knew that his thoughts were not the thoughts of others--that he was with the few, and that where one would take his side, thousands would be his eager foes. He knew that wealth would scorn and cultured ignorance deride, and that believers in the creeds, buttressed by law and custom, would hurl the missiles of revenge and hate. He knew that lies, like snakes, would fill the pathway of his life--and yet he told his honest thought--told it without hatred and without contempt--told it as it really was. And so, through all his days, his heart was sound and stainless to the core.