I say that he had studied, and he had, the real Saxon
liberty, the acquirement of our liberty, and Jack
used to repeat some verses—I don’t
know where they came from, but I thought of them to-day
when I saw that letter—that that boy could
have been talking of himself in those quoted lines
from that unknown poet:
“For
he had sat at Sidney’s feet
And
walked with him in plain apart,
And
through the centuries heard the beat
Of
Freedom’s march through Cromwell’s heart.”
And he was that kind of a boy. He should have
lived, and yet he should not have lived, because he
died at that early age—he couldn’t
have been more than twenty—he had seen
all there was to see in the world that was worth the
trouble of living in it; he had seen all of this world
that is valuable; he had seen all of this world that
was illusion, and illusion, is the only valuable thing
in it. He had arrived at that point where presently
the illusions would cease and he would have entered
upon the realities of life, and God help the man that
has arrived at that point.
Deliveredin Hartford, at A dinner to
Cornelius Walford,
of
London
Gentleman,—I am glad, indeed, to assist
in welcoming the distinguished guest of this occasion
to a city whose fame as an insurance centre has extended
to all lands, and given us the name of being a quadruple
band of brothers working sweetly hand in hand—the
Colt’s arms company making the destruction of
our race easy and convenient, our life-insurance citizens
paying for the victims when they pass away, Mr. Batterson
perpetuating their memory with his stately monuments,
and our fire-insurance comrades taking care of their
hereafter. I am glad to assist in welcoming our
guest—first, because he is an Englishman,
and I owe a heavy debt of hospitality to certain of
his fellow-countrymen; and secondly, because he is
in sympathy with insurance, and has been the means
of making many other men cast their sympathies in
the same direction.
Certainly there is no nobler field for human effort
than the insurance line of business—especially
accident insurance. Ever since I have been a
director in an accident-insurance company I have felt
that I am a better man. Life has seemed more
precious. Accidents have assumed a kindlier
aspect. Distressing special providences have
lost half their horror. I look upon a cripple
now with affectionate interest—as an advertisement.
I do not seem, to care for poetry any more.
I do not care for politics—even agriculture
does not excite me. But to me now there is a
charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable.
