SECOND ANNUAL FLOWER SERMON. ri 
and in such a place, and with so many men, things will 
go wrong occasionally; he was always pleasant and cheer- 
ful, making the best of what could not be helped.’’ Nor 
did he live in and for the present alone. He used to say 
when planting Tower Grove Park, a task in which he de- 
lighted, that he did not expect to see these children reach 
their maturity, that ** he was planting them for posterity.” 
Nor, while doing this, was he in his unambitious nature, 
thinking of himself; nor did he realize that he was build- 
ing for himself a name that would outlive the longest lives 
of these, his children. 
In concluding these personal allusions, there is one sig- 
nificant fact to which I would point, as a marked witness 
to the religious sentiments of the late Henry Shaw. Un- 
like most men he did not shrink from having a reminder 
of his mortality ever before his eyes. He could not leave 
his house to take his accustomed seat amid the bright life 
of leafy shrubs and blooming flowers, without passing the 
spot he had chosen for his last resting-place. ‘* If a man 
die, shall he live again,’’ must have been a question, often 
appealing to his mind, in the routine of his daily walk ; and 
when sketching the plan of his mausoleum, what prompted 
the thought to crown it with the emblem of our Salvation? 
There it stands and there it will stand, to preach the 
grand lesson of the Incarnation, and to remind the passer- 
by of that noblest example of self-sacrifice, culminating in 
the saving efficacy of the atonement. 
I know, brethren, you will pardon this long preface, 
though it must necessarily shorten a fuller consideration of 
the proper subject of the sermon. 
It is said of Solomon in the text: ‘* And he spake of 
trees, from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon, even unto 
the hyssop that springeth out of the wall.” 
The cedar of Lebanon was the king of the forest in 
the Holy Land; and there is reason to believe that some 
of these noble specimens of creative power, are still stand- 
ing, which have breasted the storms of thirty centuries. 
