Gedney's happiest hours were passed at his own fireside, while Winfield loved to mingle freely with his fellow men. But Winfield's children had died, one by one, in childhood, and it is pathetic to recall that he sank to his long sleep while addressing little children on a peaceful Sunday afternoon in June, just sixty-six years after his eyes had opened not far away on a world in which he was destined to reap many cruel sorrows, some substantial rewards, and all the mocking, delusive delights of a transient fame.
His friend, Judge Gedney, followed him only a month later as he sat upon the porch of his home in Goshen. As together they had journeyed through life, sharing its burdens and its conflicts, so in death they were not long separated, and in the manner of their summons they were alike blessed, for to neither did it come upon a bed of lingering illness.
Their lifelong friend, Judge Stephen W. Fullerton, was not so fortunate. Surviving his old associates fourteen years, he lived to see the world march past him and to realize the bitter truth that it takes but little interest in a lawyer, however prominent, popular or useful he may have been, after his activities and usefulness have ceased. And yet Judge Fullerton possessed some traits of character which should have ensured him, above all his fellows, from the sharp tooth of either ingratitude or neglect. He actually gave away three fortunes. His generosity knew no bounds. An appeal to his sympathies was never made in vain. A claim put forward in the name of friendship was to him sacred and admitted of no hesitation. Every consideration of selfishness or even of prudence went down before the spectacle of a friend in need. It was inevitable that a nature so generous and so confiding should often be imposed upon by unworthy claims, but to these he never referred with bitterness or even regret. A few dear friends, including especially Judge Hirschberg and Walter C. Anthony, were true and faithful to the last, and it must be a satisfaction to them to know that their loyal, undeviating attachment cheered and consoled the last hours of a lawyer who once shared with Winfield and Gedney undisputed preeminence at the bar of Orange County.
For never were tender, affectionate and generous traits of character—often assumed to be inconsistent with the coldness and sternness of the law—joined to a more severe, patient, thorough, comprehensive training in the law than in the case of Judge Fullerton. To him the law was a science and the practice of it an art demanding the sleepless pursuit and worship of its votaries. To the principles of such a science and the rules of such an art, having for their object the most exalted end of all organized society, the establishment of truth and the maintenance of justice, he was willing to consecrate the noblest energies of his mind and heart. To him no labor was too hard, no sacrifice too great to deter him from mastering the minutest details of a complicated case or from ascertaining and applying the principles by which it should be governed. When he came to court to present it every form in which difficulty might be apprehended or obstacles interposed had been anticipated and provided for. He always tried the case on both sides before he went to court, and his opponents never raised many of the points which he, in his anxious survey, had most dreaded. His thorough knowledge of the rules of evidence enabled him to introduce testimony upon some minor issue in the case which was afterwards used with telling effect upon the main issue. In his addresses to the jury he discarded every appeal to mere sentiment and sought to impress only their reason and their judgment. His analysis of the evidence was so close and perfect, his presentation of it so clear and convincing that the jury were led to think that his was the view they had taken of it all the time it was being given. Gathering up the different threads of narrative in the case he wove them together in a strand of pitiless, impervious, cohesive logic that not all the frantic efforts of his adversary could avail to unwind. Such was the man who, like Gedney, had also been county judge and district attorney of the county, to whom Mr. Marsh, as the spokesman of the Orange County bar, paid fitting tribute at the Newburgh court house in June, 1902—Luther R. Marsh who at the time of his own death in 1903, constituted the last lingering tie between the present and the past.
No history of Orange County is complete that fails to chronicle the twelve years' residence of Luther R. Marsh, who imparted luster to every scene in which he mingled, dignity to every spot in which he lingered. He spent in Middletown the closing years of a life which had been marked by the most intense ardor and activity in his profession, and, though he had retired from active practice when he settled in Orange County, he was drawn into court after that upon two occasions in litigations arising in the county. The intimate friend all his life of Orange County's ablest sons, from the Hoffmans to the Fullertons, he became the friend, the companion, the idol of a new generation of its lawyers when he came to Middletown in 1889, being then nearly eighty years of age. For though he lived to be ninety, he never became old, worn or feeble in spirit. In a public speech delivered a few months before his death, he declared that to be the happiest period of his life. In his daily walk and conversation he exemplified the philosophy of Rabbi Ben Ezra, as expressed by Browning:
"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made;
Our times are in His hand
Who saith 'A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half;' trust God; see all,
Nor be afraid!"
Nor was he afraid. His daring vision sought to pierce the secrets of the hereafter. For a long time before his death he was deeply interested in spiritual phenomena and in the investigation of those manifestations of persistent personal energy after death, the authenticity of which constitutes the only proof we can ever obtain of the doctrine of immortality. Trained to estimate the weight and value of evidence, engaged during his entire professional career in convincing arguments as to its proper construction and effect, he accepted as sufficient and satisfactory the evidence adduced to him of communications and impressions still conveyed, as the church even now maintains they were of old, from those who have passed on to the spirit world.
But, though during his later years he clearly saw how trivial were the ordinary ambitions and pursuits of men; though his thoughts became more and more centered upon things spiritual and eternal, yet he never lost his interest in the sterling values and, above all, in the beautiful friendships of life. Childhood, youth and manhood held each its claim upon his tender regard, his ready understanding, his never-failing sympathy. To him more than to any man I ever knew do Goldsmith's immortal lines apply:
"E'en children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head."
Luther R. Marsh was unquestionably the most original, brilliant, fascinating, prolific, versatile genius that ever dwelt in Orange County during the years in which in him it "entertained an angel unawares." He mingled on equal terms with the greatest men of his generation. He was a partner of Daniel Webster. Among my most cherished possessions is the tin sign which Mr. Marsh had framed and hanging for many years in his study, bearing in his own handwriting the inscription: