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they that come after are to make out the complexity and 
grandeur of the character of him who has gone before. 
The man whose eulogy we read to-night has left us mon- 
uments enough. ‘They stand in long lines above his resting- 
place, like the Menhirs of Carnac, vistas of monoliths. Some 
men are satisfied if they erect but one, like that which now 
lies broken into four fragments at Loc-Maria-Ker in Brit- 
tany, along the ground. The intellectual energy of other 
men survives in some Druid circle sacred to a single deity. 
But Edward Hitcheock lived a various life, and wrote of all 
that touched the deepest consciousness of his age. His 
monuments stand in parallel ranges. In Religion he wrote 
five volumes and thirty-seven essays, pamphlets, and tracts. 
In Science he published fourteen volumes, five pamphlets, 
and seventy scientific papers, on Botanical, Mineralogical 
and Geological and Physical subjects, in journals and reviews. 
His works on Temperance are in three volumes and three 
smaller tracts. In early life he wrote a tragedy, the year 
the great Napoleon fell. And there are twenty-six titles 
given us of various other productions of his pen, which went 
to swell the current published literature of the times in which 
he lived. Other men write as much, and publish nothing. 
But who counts the half-cut stone still lying in the quarry 
as among the obelisks of Egypt? This man lived for his 
times, not for himself. He was no dilettante. The perfume 
of the flowering of his soul was not wasted on the desert air. 
He was no anchorite, but a true missionary both in religion 
and in science. He was not fond of that dolce far niente 
which confined the delights of the Decameron to a select 
circle of ladies, while the surrounding world was wretchedly 
_ perishing with the plague. He did not sympathize with the 
proud reticence of men of science who claim that the doc- 
. trine is esoteric; that to popularize science, degrades it. 
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