ABRAHAM STEWART. 93 



that I know of is always more musical and joyful when I 

 sit by it and talk of one who loved it long ago, and whose 

 cheerful, happy face and voice were the pride of the village 

 church and village choir. Certainly the ocean has no 

 such deep, full tone as when I lie on the beach, my elbow 

 buried in the sand, and, fixing my eye on one beloved, 

 name one who sank in the great sea, whose shout went 

 up from a wave top, a mountain summit of the waters, 

 whereon uplifted he caught the view of heaven sometimes 

 granted to those about to die, and whence he escaped into 

 its peace. Certainly the wind has no such voice, no such 

 tone of perfect music, as it used to have among the pines 

 around the Old House, while Joe Willis and I sat at the 

 library window of a September evening and thought of 

 the beloved dead ; for we had but to think of them and 

 the wind knew our thoughts up there — on my faith, it did. 

 I never had a sad thought or a glad one there that the 

 wind did not seem to know of. 



I am certain that the waterfall had a louder voice when 

 Philip said that Abraham Stewart was a good old man. 

 His record is above. He has gone to read it there. We 

 read it here, and I add my line of praise to those which 

 the hearts of the inhabitants of that country-place have 

 long preserved. 



Yes, he died gloriously ; with a smile and a shout, and 

 the voice of shouting like the voice of many waters, which 

 they who stood beside him heard, or thought they heard, 

 audibly from the assembly of saints and martyrs into 

 which he passed. He sang the words of a psalm in the 

 evening before he died, and Jessie, the child, took up the 

 words, and ignorant that her grandfather was departing 

 into the solemn company of those who had sung the 

 psalm in other years in flame and flood, her voice rang 



