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If we should speak
the eulogy that fills this day, let us build within the city that he
loved, a monument tall as his services, and noble as the place he
filled. Let every Georgian lend a hand, and as it rises to confront in
majesty his darkened home, let the widow who weeps there be told that
every stone that makes it has been sawn from the sound prosperity that
he builded, and that the light which plays upon its summit is, in
afterglow, the sunshine that he brought into the world.
And for the rest--silence. The sweetest thing about his funeral was that
no sound broke the stillness save the reading of the Scriptures, and the
melody of music. No fire that can be kindled upon the altar of speech
can relume the radiant spark that perished yesterday. No blaze born in
all our eulogy can burn beside the sunlight of his useful life. After
all, there is nothing grander than such living.
I have seen the light that gleamed from the headlight of some giant
engine rushing onward through the darkness, heedless of opposition,
fearless of danger, and I thought it was grand.


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