O face, all radiant with light of love;
O eyes, so laughing in their tenderness.
So quick to read the language of distress;
O lips, so touched with flame as from above—
We have seen that sweet vision, and all the way before us shall be the clearer, and we the stronger, because of it. And the sweet memory of our brother shall remain to us.
Like some clear large star, which pilgrims,
At their back leave, and see not always;
Yet wheresoever they list, may turn,
And with its glories gild their faces still!
For himself, he has ascended to the mountains of myrrh and the hill of frankincense, and has seen the day break and the shadows flee away. But, brothers, let us cherish no such idle notion as though James Powell had now forgotten, or has ceased to be interested in the Chinaman, the Indian and the Negro, in America.
EULOGY BY REV. DR. IDE.
If there is any special fitness in inviting me to speak on this occasion, it lies in the fact that Dr. Powell was an intimate friend of mine. Outside of the circle of my own home, there was no one with whom I ever held such close and familiar relationship as with him. Our acquaintance began in the early days of college life, when our nation was in the throes of a civil war. We were not members of the same class, but were brought together quite frequently through the literary society to which we both belonged. During this period our relations were simply cordial. Unconsciously the advice of that witty old divine, Thomas Fuller, was being followed: "Let friendship creep gently to a height; if it rush to it, it may soon run itself out of breath."
Dr. Powell graduated from Dartmouth College in the class of 1866, while my graduation took place the previous year, in the class of 1865. My first year out of college was spent in teaching in my native town. When the decision was reached of entering the Theological Seminary, it was mutually agreed that we should go to Andover and room together. From that time on our intimacy grew apace. We passed three years together as chums; but that relation did not cease when we separated and each went his own way to the field of labor where the Lord had appointed. The last letter that I received from him, (and I have been informed that it was the last letter that he ever wrote, which reached me only the day before the despatch that apprised me of his death), began in that same old familiar fashion, "My dear Chum." I have thus made reference to matters somewhat personal, that the standpoint from which I speak may be more clearly understood. I have "summered and wintered him;" I have been permitted to know him within and without; I have been with him in season and out of season; I have studied with him; I have prayed with him; I have loved him as a brother.
It is more in accord with the promptings of my heart to speak a few words suggested by intimacy and long acquaintance with Dr. Powell. Many learned to respect and honor him through the abundance of his labors in the broad field to which God in his providence called him for service. But there is another side to that life, private, personal, even more attractive and richly suggestive to those who knew him best and were permitted to enjoy his friendship.
Our brother did not possess the conventional qualities which sometimes are associated with the "cloth." He was without that endless gravity which could almost fittingly grace a pedestal. That pious deacon who had not "snickered" for above forty years, would have found his moral sensitiveness somewhat disturbed by the free, untrammelled way in which he spoke and acted. There was no monotony in his make-up. He was natural—natural as devoid of all cant and affected airs. When you met him, you had not come upon some person trumped for the occasion; it was Powell, the very man you wanted to see. He could not be anything but himself. Genuineness and unaffected simplicity were revealed in him, as in few others. He could be as serious as a country judge; but he was serious because the matter was in him, and it was the hour for seriousness. He could be as playful as a child, but it was because the play was in him and it was time for play. When our brother was pastor of the North Church, in Newburyport, it was our custom to meet every Monday morning in Boston. On one occasion, a brother-in-law of mine, a boy in his teens, accompanied me to Boston, where we were to meet Mr. Powell. We soon found ourselves tramping about the city on errands. Mr. Powell was effervescing with fun. At such seasons, and they were very frequent, he took great pleasure in making me the victim of his frolicsomeness. On this occasion, I found that Mr. Powell had enlisted the boy in the scheme of hiding away from me every chance they could get. Passing through a crowd, I would look around and discover that they had absconded; and then it devolved on me to hunt them up, I never shall forget how this manoeuvering interested that boy. He came up to me and whispered the first opportunity he had, "He is the funniest minister that I ever saw in my life." That was his first visit with Mr. Powell, but it was not the last. On that day an attachment was formed which has lasted through all these years. A little boy, four years old, in Oak Park, where Mr. Powell resided for some time, was asked by his father, what he wanted to do when he got to be a man, and answered: "Be a minister and go hunting like Mr. Powell." He was a man for the boys. He touched a responsive chord in their nature. He could enjoy what they enjoyed with as keen a relish as they themselves.
He was the very soul of friendship; he had a genius for it. The friends that he made are only limited by the want of personal contact with him. In the making of them it may be said "He came, he saw, he conquered." How wide he opened his arms to receive us! There were no partition walls to be levelled before we approached him. It required no studied effort to get at him. The way was always clear; the door was without a latch-string even; it was open. You never had to ask, Is Mr. Powell in a proper mood to see his friends to-day? Why, it was worth a journey of fifty miles just to meet that man and receive a grasp of his hand! I remember going to a depot in Chicago to meet him as he came in on the train. As soon as he singled me out from the crowd, he rushed towards me, exclaiming in his bantering way: "Well, well, well, this is the first sensible thing I ever knew you to do, come on old fellow;" and he grasped my arm and hurried me away, saying, "I am just glad to see you." When it is said, that he is the "best beloved of all," is it not because he first loved us? The generosity and friendliness of his soul captured our hearts. I imagine that many thousands of dollars were poured into the treasury of the A.M.A. evoked by the love kindled in hearts for our brother. Men came to love the cause through him who loved them.