I am here as much as possible.
WILLIAM ALCOTT, fireman. _Camden, Nov., 1874_.--Last Monday afternoon
his widow, mother, relatives, mates of the fire department, and his
other friends, (I was one, only lately it is true, but our love grew
fast and close, the days and nights of those eight weeks by the chair
of rapid decline, and the bed of death,) gather'd to the funeral
of this young man, who had grown up, and was well-known here. With
nothing special, perhaps, to record, I would give a word or two to his
memory. He seem'd to me not an inappropriate specimen in character and
elements, of that bulk of the average good American race that ebbs and
flows perennially beneath this scum of eructations on the surface.
Always very quiet in manner, neat in person and dress, good
temper'd--punctual and industrious at his work, till he could work no
longer--he just lived his steady, square, unobtrusive life, in its own
humble sphere, doubtless unconscious of itself. (Though I think there
were currents of emotion and intellect undevelop'd beneath, far deeper
than his acquaintances ever suspected--or than he himself ever did.)
He was no talker. His troubles, when he had any, he kept to himself.
As there was nothing querulous about him in life, he made no
complaints during his last sickness. He was one of those persons that
while his associates never thought of attributing any particular
talent or grace to him, yet all insensibly, really, liked Billy
Alcott.
I, too, loved him.
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