PROFESSOR WILLIAM RUSSEL DUDLEY* 

 By JARED TREMAN NEWMAN 



ONE of the purest and noblest souls such as one is fortunate to come 

 close to even once or twice in a lifetime passed to the life beyond 

 yesterday afternoon. 



Professor Dudley was a prominent scientist, "one of America's fore- 

 most teachers of botany, one of the pioneers in the movement toward 

 conservation," largely instrumental in the establishment of the California 

 Redwood Park, and the secretary of the park commission; yet, it is not of 

 these, nor of his other scientific attainments or accomplishments, that we 

 think chiefly at this time. 



Of fine New England stock, cultured, with a refinement that was 

 genuine all the way thorough, doing splendid work in his chosen profession 

 and capable of making a great name for himself, his best service to the world 

 was in imparting to other men higher aspirations and nobler ideals. 



Far back in the early days at Cornell, there was a little coterie of men 

 gathered in close association. It included Jordan and Branner and Nichols 

 and Gage and Fairchild and Kellerman and many others who have deservedly 

 come to high position. Among them all there was none of finer instincts 

 or more lovable character than Dudley. 



For many years after his graduation at Cornell, and while he remained 

 a teacher there, he was the guiding and inspiring genius of successive groups 

 of young men. Some were taking his work. Others were attracted to him 

 by his rare personality. Still others he sought out. What he imparted to 

 them, and to all who came close to him, was something of priceless value. 

 It was the very soul of the man. He withheld nothing. Absolutely un- 

 calculating in his unselfishness, so pure that impurity could not be thought 

 of in his presence, a lover of nature and nature's God, his influence 

 was constantly ennobling. Like many noble souls, he was peculiarly sensi- 

 tive. He was hurt often when no hurt was intended. He was often 

 melancholy, sometimes almost morbid. It has always seemed so strange 

 that one who gave so much and so constantly should not be always happy. 

 Perhaps he made up for it in the intensity of his joys. While he was often 

 misundertood and while the number of persons who came close to him was 

 not relatively large, yet few men have merited, or have known, in so large 

 a degree, the love of their fellows. 



From The Palo Alto Times, June 5, 1911. 



