and more than compensated, by his generous impulses, his affectionate disposition, and his brilliant, domestic, social and Christian virtues. I take a melancholy pleasure in bearing this public testimony to his noble, unselfish, self-sacrificing spirit, his warm and loving heart, his burning zeal and untiring labours in the cause of God and His Church, and in every enterprise promising in any, even in the smallest way, to promote her weal and extend her influence. His superior natural talents, his richly cultivated mind, his brilliant genius, his profound and diversified learning, commanded my admiration. His moral worth, his deep and ardent piety, and his genial social virtues, won my high esteem and strong affection. His work for God's Church, particularly in the cause of Christian education, was wise in concep tion, extensive in character, and eminent in success. No man of his day has done so much for the religious training of the children of the Church, and done it so well. His episcopate of twenty-seven years was equally distinguished for its signal efficiency and its glorious results. Amid much misapprehension of the purity of his motives, the honesty of his purposes, and the wisdom of his plans, by some even who were apparently personally friendly; and constant and cruel misrepresentation, malicious opposition, and unmerited reproach from others, who taking counsel of their passions and prejudices, were pertinacious in their machinations and denunciations, he, strong in the "mens conscia recti," and in the faith and fear of God his Saviour, fearlessly pursued the great work conceived by his great heart, and planned by his sagacious wisdom, unmoved by pragmatical opposition, and undaunted by reproach and calumny. What his zealous and far-seeing spirit prompted, his judgment approved, and his conscience commended as duty, that he did, and persisted in doing, regardless of personal consequences. Right onward was his principle and practice. He lived an honest man, with no deceit in his tongue, no reservation of his convictions, no double dealing, and no mean subterfuges in his conduct.-He lived a true man, true to his noble instincts, true to the high and holy principles which prompted his acts and concentrated his energies, true to his official responsibilities, true to the Church which he loved, true to his God. He lived a devoted Christian man, an affectionate, sympathizing, faithful shepherd of the flock committed, in the Providence of God, to his chief pastoral supervision, and which, under his laborious, acceptable, and efficient ministrations, had grown from comparative feebleness to extraordinary strength, "the little one " he found, having under his assiduous nurture "become a thousand." He died as he had lived. The summons to depart was sudden, but it found him with his armour on, the Christian soldier clothed in the panoply of God, and ready for the final conflict, as he had ever been for the many and grievous conflicts, which seemed to cluster about his course from earliest manhood until the day of his death. His last words were a truthful and impressive epitome of the faith in which he had lived; they embodied the principles which had ever actuated his proceedings, and sustained him amid his many trials and accumulated sorrows. "I die," said he, "in the faith of the Son of God, and in the confidence of His One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. I have no merits: no man has but my trust is in the mercy of Jesus." Thus he "fell asleep in Jesus;" for "so He giveth His beloved sleep." *I was one of the crowd which, last Saturday, attended the burial of Bishop Doane, at Burlington, New Jersey. The concourse was the largest that I ever saw on such an occasion; and there were other features of it which were still more remarkable. It was the most sorrowful assemblage which I ever witnessed; nor was the sorrow confined to the women and children. I never before saw so many men bowed with grief. I do not believe, that, in all my life, I have seen so many men shed tears as I saw on that single day. Nor were they all men of the softer mood. Some of them were venerable judges, practiced lawyers, and men of business, from whom one would have expected only the serious and respectful demeanour suited to the solemn circumstances. I saw the heaving breast, the manly struggle to repress the signs of emotion, and, in some instances, the complete breaking down under the force of the inward grief. For example, one elderly gentleman, whose name, were I at liberty to mention it, would be familiar to many of your readers, a man used to public life, and inured, one would think, to all the "changes and chances of this world," approached the grave, after the body was lowered, to take a last look at the coffin which contained the mortal remains of the departed. His lip quivered, his eye moistened, he exerted himself strongly to retain his composure. But it was in vain. He was forced to yield to his emotion; and, his gray hairs stooping over the grave, his tears streamed freely down upon the coffin beneath. I witnessed many such scenes during the day, and especially at the grave. The whole town seemed in mourning. Persons no way connected with the deceased by kindred, were in full black. Shutters were closed on the streets, and badges of grief were hanging from different parts of the houses. Nor did the sorrow seem to be confined to those who were of the same religious communion with the departed. Men of other names were as deeply affected by the sympathies of the occasion. I have often seen great burials before. I have often marked the sobriety and general decorum which attend them. But I have never until now seen such an assembly pervaded with the grief that is felt when one has lost a near and beloved relation. If a stranger had happened there who had learned nothing of the cause of the gathering, it would have seemed to him as if almost every one present must have been of the family of the dead man. My own feeling, (and I knew Bishop Doane well, though not with the intimacy of closest confidence,) was, that none but a very remarkable man would be followed to the grave by such a manifestation. And he was a remarkable man; in some respects, one of the most remarkable of the men who rank among the historical personages of America; for such, undoubtedly, will be the position which posterity will assign to him; he will be a historic person. Let me sketch his character, as briefly and summarily as I may. Bishop Southgate. Bishop Doane died within one month of sixty years of age. How any physical constitution could have endured so long the labors which he performed, and the manner in which he performed them, the trials which he suffered, and the “wear and tear" of mind which was incessant with him, is a marvel. I never knew his equal in labor. He was a mighty workman. Day and night, without sleep, often without food, with no other rest than a change of toil, and with a boundless elasticity of temperament, which seemed as fresh at the end as at the beginning, with no care of himself, and with no thought of himself, he would work, work, work, with sanguine and exultant energy. There was more life in him than enters into the composition of twelve ordinary men. To me he was always, in this respect, a living miracle. Hence arose much of his greatness; and hence arose almost all his faults. His native endowment of intellect was large; not so much profound as various and strong. He was an accurate theologian, exact in his definitions of doctrine, and broad in his survey of truth; yet he seemed not to reach and embrace truth by slow pro cesses, but by sudden and rapid intuition. This quality of his mind was marked in every thing. His judgments were intuitive. He leaped to his conclusions with startling energy, and held them afterwards with perfect clearness of perception. His will was indomitable; the rush of his speech and action irresistible. This made him seem to many arbitrary; but it was, only the vividness of his convictions and the lightning-like rapidity of his thought and motion. He was no cool calculator. If he had been, his life would have been an easier and a safer one. It was not in his nature to be otherwise than he was. It was an impossibility for him, with his ardent and glowing temperament, his fertile imagination, his swiftness of thought, his exuberance of physical energy. It is useless to attempt to trim such a character down to the staid rules of formal judgment. unfair, it seems to me, to judge such a man at all, without a large and generous allowance for the peculiarities of his mental constitution. He was a great man; and, like most great men, his faults sprung from the very elements which created his greatness. It is *The most careless observer of passing events must have noticed that Bishop Doane has occupied a large place in the history of the Church for many years past. Prominent in her general councils, forward in all great schemes for her advancement, the fearless champion of all her distinctive principles, an active Diocesan, a laborious parish priest, the founder and President of two great institutions of education, constantly addressing the public through the Press, he was of necessity an object of much attention, and became a conspicuous mark for censure or praise. Add to this the unpleasant notoriety of which he was made the object by the ill-advised action of others, and you can hardly imagine a position of sterner and severer trial in which a fallible man could be placed. A Bishop who stood upon such an eminence of life and action be fore the world, whose history is so interwoven with that of the Church, who exercised such an influence upon her interests, claims a more ex *The Churchman. tended notice in our columns than the passing one we gave last week. The notice of his death came at the time in which our paper usually goes to press, and we could only set forth the leading facts of this prelate's life. Our present design is to read, in the calm and sober light of truth, the lessons which this life addresses to the living. We desire to place on record a just estimate of the character of this distinguished Bishop of the Church, and while we shall strive not to be misled by the partiality of love, we hope that all personal and party prejudices will now be buried in his grave. An ordinary common-place individual, whose qualities are not so positive as to excite hatred or love, may pass quietly through the world with that general and vague reputation of being a good sort of a man. The world thinks well of him because he has never given it any trouble by disturbing its prejudices or self-complacency. The world is no wiser nor better because he has lived in it, but the world is satisfied with him and with itself. Not such a man, thus to win the negative esteem of men, was Bishop Doane. His qualities were almost all positive. Those which were not so, were either comparative or superlative. There was nothing negative about him. He boldly challenged the positive regard of men. Consequently, more than almost any man we have ever known, the extremes of opposite judg ments were pronounced upon him. His fast and firmest friends, among them men and women of the highest station and character, were those who knew him best and whose intimacy was of closest and longest standing. His opponents were mostly those who never saw him near at hand, who knew least or nothing of him, and whose prejudices and passions were excited by evil reports. Of his real character his nearest neighbours were his truest witnesses, and we are fully satisfied with the testimony borne by the citizens of Burlington in the general outpouring of their love and sorrow around his deathbed and his grave. We trust we may, without irreverence, refer to that fine distinction made in God's Word between a living soul and a quickening spirit. In one class of men, like the first Adam, there seems to be a mere capability of existence. They have just life enough, and no more, to live for themselves. Their vitality hardly animates the dull, sluggish, clay of their earthly mould. You have to feel their pulse to find out they are living. The atmosphere of life is not around them. Why they live, or what they live for, is as much a puzzle to themselves as to others. In them every affection, and every principle, and every energy is lukewarm, with just enough, and none to spare, of the heat of life to save them from the coldness of death. They extend no life, no warmth, no influence around them. There is another class of men, and these are the mighty of the earth, in whom life is not merely a self-animating principle, but a vivifying influence. Their vitality pervades soul, body, and spirit with all their powers and faculties, glows in their affections, breathes in their principles, and energizes their actions. In all these it is not only a living power, but a quickening influence, animating all within its reach. To the latter of these classes of men, Bishop Doane, we need hardly say, belonged. Here was the secret of his power, of his greatness and his goodness. All that came within his reach shared the quickening power of his own vitality. His affections, his principles, his energies, were so instinct with life, that they had a quickening power which animated all within their influence. We need hardly add that this vital energy gave its secret power to his preaching and to all his writings, equally manifest in his charges to his Convention, or his sermons, or his addresses to his beloved children of St. Mary's Hall, or Burlington College. There is a living spirit quickening them all, which will keep them alive, when most of what is now living shall be dead and forgotten. This is especially true of Bishop Doane's poetry, in which the creative and quickening power is most conspicuous. Had he not been a great Bishop, his spirit oppressed with the burden of duty which falls upon such greatness, he had been a great Poet. Or if he had sought mere worldly renown, it is hard to say in what sphere of earthly distinction he had attained most greatness. All that he had of life, of power, was consecrated to his high ministry. Few men, who have not attained a martyr's crown, have suffered more or given more for Christ and His Church, than Bishop Doane. His untiring activity, his almost superhuman labour, in fulfilling all the proper duties of his office, are known to all. To these he added cares and labours, which no man would voluntarily assume, whose heart and soul were not animated by a devoted zeal in his Master's work. Bishop, Rector, President of two institutions, on his right hand and on his left, it might be thought he had no time or thought to spare for other interests. But his large, loving heart went out into all the interests of the Church, and none more constant, more vigilant in all that concerned her welfare. His spirit was truly a Catholic and a missionary one, going forth to the utmost extremities of the Church's great field. And while he was so attentive to all its public duties, the interests of private life, the claims of kindred love, the calls of friendship had no more prompt, more faithful minister. Let a friend be sick, let a child be ill, in some beloved household, and he was soonest at the bedside. Affliction never entered a friend's home, without bringing the Bishop, or some dear token of his love. With his loving, gentle wisdom, with his tenderness of spirit, he was the most powerful human comforter we have ever known. He was the most disinterested, the most unselfish of men. All he had was at the disposal of his friends. The warmth of his fireside seemed more cheerful to him when its brightness lent cheer to his hospitality. And what a host he was-and how pleasant to be his guest! And how little children loved him, as he made himself their play-fellow! How his living love drew the hearts of the young to him, will be told by a thousand voices of his sons and daughters, of the Hall and College, scattered throughout the land. We have often thought, when enjoying with him the calm and quiet repose of River side, what a temptation, with such a home and all the means of mak ing it an abode of luxury, to make life a season of ease and enjoyment. Then we have gone forth with him into the restless scenes of his toiling life, beheld him heaping on his own shoulders, the weary load |