I am sure of it. Of the foul
and foolish fictions yet told about the circumstances of his decease,
the absolute fact is that as he lived a good life, after its kind, he
died calmly and philosophically, as became him. He served the embryo
Union with most precious service--a service that every man, woman
and child in our thirty-eight States is to some extent receiving the
benefit of to-day--and I for one here cheerfully, reverently throw
my pebble on the cairn of his memory. As we all know, the season
demands--or rather, will it ever be out of season?--that America learn
to better dwell on her choicest possession, the legacy of her good and
faithful men--that she well preserve their fame, if unquestion'd--or,
if need be, that she fail not to dissipate what clouds have intruded
on that fame, and burnish it newer, truer and brighter, continually.
A TWO HOURS ICE-SAIL
_Feb. 3, '77_--From 4 to 6 P. M. crossing the Delaware, (back again
at my Camden home,) unable to make our landing, through the ice; our
boat stanch and strong and skilfully piloted, but old and sulky, and
poorly minding her helm. (_Power_, so important in poetry and war, is
also first point of all in a winter steamboat, with long stretches of
ice-packs to tackle.) For over two hours we bump'd and beat about,
the invisible ebb, sluggish but irresistible, often carrying us long
distances against our will. In the first tinge of dusk, as I look'd
around, I thought there could not be presented a more chilling,
arctic, grim-extended, depressing scene.
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