TRIBUTE TO A COLLEGE CLASSMATE.
Remarks on the Late John W. Browne, August 20, 1860.
Mr. Browne died suddenly, May 1st, 1860. A little volume was printed in the summer, entitled “In Memoriam J. W. B.,” to which Mr. Sumner contributed the following notice. Prefixed were the words of Fénelon:—
“Il n’y a que les grands cœurs qui sachent combien il y a de gloire à être bon.”
I should feel unhappy, if this little book of tribute to my early friend were allowed to appear without a word from me. We were classmates in college, and for two out of the four years of undergraduate life were chums. We were also together in the Law School. Perhaps no person now alive knew him better, during all this period. Separated afterwards by the occupations of the world, I saw him only at intervals, though our friendship continued unbroken to the end, and when we met, it was always with the warmth and confidence of our youthful relations.
Of all my classmates, I think that he gave, in college, the largest promise of future eminence, mingled, however, with uncertainty whether the waywardness of genius might not betray him. None then imagined that the fiery nature, nursed upon the study of Byron, and delighting always to talk of his poetry and life, would be tamed to the modest ways which he afterwards adopted. The danger seemed to be, that, like his prototype, he would break loose from social life, and follow the bent of lawless ambition, or at least plunge with passion into the strifes of the world. His earnestness at this time bordered on violence, and in all his opinions he was a partisan. But he was already thinker as well as reader, and expressed himself with accuracy and sententious force. Voice harmonizes with character, and his was too apt to be ungentle and loud.
They who have known him only latterly will be surprised at this glimpse of him in early life. A change so complete in sentiment, manner, and voice, as took place in him, I have never known. It seemed like one of those instances in Christian story, where the man of violence is softened suddenly into a saintly character. I do not exaggerate in the least. So much have I been impressed by it at times, that I could hardly believe in his personal identity, and I have recalled the good Fra Cristoforo, in the exquisite romance of Manzoni, to prove that the simplest life of unostentatious goodness may succeed a youth hot with passion of all kinds.
To me, who knew him so well in his other moods, it was touching in the extreme to note this change. Listening to his voice, now so gentle and low, while he conversed on the duties of life, and with perfect simplicity revealed his own abnegation of worldly aims, I have been filled with reverence. At these times his conversation was peculiar and instructive. He had thought for himself, and expressed what he said with all his native force refined by new-born sweetness of soul, which would have commended sentiments even of less intrinsic interest. I saw how, in the purity of his nature, he turned aside from riches and from ambition of all kinds, content with a tranquil existence, undisturbed by any of those temptations which promised once to exercise such sway over him. But his opinions, while uttered with modesty, were marked by the hardihood of an original thinker, showing that in him
“the Gods had joined