“I am permitted,” said the clergyman who spoke at his funeral, and with his words I close these remarks, “I am permitted to address to you in the presence of the solemnity of death some few reflections that occur to me in memory of one whom we shall know no more in life. A few Saturday evenings ago I was walking along by a lake at a seashore home when a great and wondrous beauty spread itself beneath my eye. It was one of those inimitable pictures that rarely come to one. In the foreground there lay a lake with no ripple on its surface. It was a calm and sleeping thing. A shining glory was in the western sky. The sun had gone, but where he disappeared were indications of beauty—one of the most beautiful afterglows I have ever seen. It was not one of the ordinary things, and as I looked at it there came many reflections. Here is one of them. It seems quite applicable this morning. That which caused the quiet glory of the lake, that which caused the radiation of beauty, had gone. Its day’s work was done. That quiet lake and streaked sky were the type of a picture of a busy, useful, successful life that had been accomplished. It was a complete thing. The day was done. The activity had passed away. It was finished just as this life. What had made it beautiful had gone, but he flung back monuments of beauty that made the scene as beautiful as good words and noble deeds make the memory of man. There were six of these rays. Young men, brethren of this community, you will do well to remember that anywhere and everywhere, without patience and industry, nothing great can be done. The life departed was a busy one—one of busy usefulness. The cry that came from him was, ‘I must work; I must be busy.’ Live as this man did, that your life may be one that can be held up as an example and a light to young men of the coming generations. One ray of beauty was his sterling truthfulness. It is a splendid thing to be trusted by your fellows. Another ray was his prudent foresight. It was characteristic of him, and it is a splendid thing to have. Another ray that welled out of him was his striking humanity. There was one continual trait in his character. I would call it manhoodness. There was another feature—his deep humility.”
Such were some of the traits of character of a man who lived a long life in the city where he was born. If no distinctive monument has been erected to his memory, there are the “Union League,” “The Academy of the Fine Arts,” and “The Academy of Music,” with which his name will always be associated; and, what is better still, there are many hearts that throb with grateful memories of an unselfish man, who in time of sore need stretched out his hand to help, and that hand was never empty. And you will remember, you Girard boys, that this man who did so much for his native city and for his fellow-citizens was not nearly so well educated at the age of fourteen when he left school as many of you are now. See what he did; see what some of you may do!
THE LEAF TURNED OVER.
January 1, 1888.
Some weeks ago I gave you two lectures on “Turning Over a New Leaf.” One of the directors of this college to whom I sent a printed copy said I ought to follow those with another on this subject: “The Leaf Turned Over.” I at once accepted this suggestion and shall now try to follow his advice.
Most thoughtful people as they approach the end of a year are apt to ask themselves some plain questions—as to their manner of life, their habits of thought, their amusements, their studies, their business, their home, their families, their companions, their plans for the future, their duty to their fellow-men, their duty to God; in short, whether the year about to close has been a happy one; whether they have been successful or otherwise in what they have attempted to do.
The merchant, manufacturer or man of business of any kind who keeps books, and whose accounts are properly kept, looks with great interest at his account book at such a time, to see whether his business has been profitable or otherwise, whether he has lost or made money, whether his capital is larger or smaller than it was at the beginning of the year, whether he is solvent or insolvent, whether he is able to pay his debts or is bankrupt.
And to very many persons engaged in business for themselves, this is a time of great anxiety, for one can hardly tell exactly whether he is getting on favorably until his account books are posted and the balances are struck. If one’s capital is small and the result of the year’s business is a loss, that means a reduction of capital, and raises the question whether this can go on for some years without failure and bankruptcy. Many and many a business man looks with great anxiety to the month of December, and especially to the end of it, to learn whether he shall be able to go on in his business, however humble. And, alas! there are many whose books of account are so badly kept, and whose balances are so rarely struck, or who keep no account books at all, that they never know how they stand, but are always under the apprehension that any day they may fail to meet their obligations and so fail and become bankrupt. They were insolvent long before, but they did not know it; and they have gone on from bad to worse until they are ruined. Others, again, are afraid to look closely into their account books—afraid to have the balances struck, lest they should be convinced that their affairs are in a hopeless condition. Unhappy cowards they are, for if insolvent the sooner they know it the better, that they may make the best settlement they can with their creditors, if the business is worth following at all, and begin again, “turning over a new leaf.”
I do not suppose that many of you boys have ever thought much on these subjects; for you are not in business as principals or as clerks, you have no merchandise or produce or money to handle, you have no account books for yourselves or for other people to keep, to post, to balance, and you may think you have no interest in these remarks; but I hope to be able to show you that these things are not matters of indifference to you.