List Of Contents | Contents of The Pedler of Dust Sticks, by Eliza Lee Follen
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knew that life could never give them another such friend.

His body was placed in the great hall, in his country house, and
surrounded by orange trees in full bloom. Flowers he loved to the
very last; and flowers shed their perfume over the mortal garment of
his great and beautiful soul. One after another, his workmen and his
other friends came and looked at his sweet and noble countenance,
and took a last farewell.

In Germany, when a distinguished man dies, he is carried to the
grave on an elevated hearse decorated with black feathers and all
the trappings of woe; but Henry's workmen insisted upon carrying
their benefactor and friend to his last home in their arms. Their
sorrowing hearts were the truest mourning, the only pomp and
circumstance worthy of the occasion; and their streaming eyes were
the modest and unobtrusive, but most deeply affecting, pageant of
that day. All the inhabitants followed him, with mourning in their
hearts. Remembering Henry's love for flowers, his fellow-citizens
made arches of flowers in three places for his mortal remains to
pass under, as the most appropriate testimonial of their love. The
public officers all followed him to the grave, and the military paid
him appropriate honors. Three different addresses were delivered
over his body by distinguished speakers, and then hundreds and
hundreds of voices joined in singing a hymn to his praise written by
a friend.

Henry made such an arrangement of his business, and left such
directions about it, as to make sure that his workmen should, if
they wished it, have employment in his factory for ten years to
come. He divided his property equally amongst his children, and
bequeathed to them all his charities, which were not few, saying
that he knew that his children would do as he had done, and that
these duties would be sacred with them.

Such a life needs no comment. Its eloquence, its immortal power, is
its truth, its reality.

Among the many beautiful things that were written in honor of Henry,
I have translated these as peculiarly simple and just.


"Henry--, a MAN in the best sense of the term, strong in body and
soul, with a heart full of the noblest purposes, which he carried
out into action, without show and with a child-like mind."

"To the great Giver of all things thankful for the smallest gift. To
his family a devoted father. To his friends a faithful friend. To
the state a useful citizen. To the poor a benefactor. To the dying a
worthy example."

"Why was this power broken in the prime of life? Why were the wings
of this diligent spirit clipped? Why were stopped the beatings of
this heart, which beat for all created things? Sad questions, which
can only find an answer in the assurance that all which God wills
for us is good."

"Peace be with thee, friend and brother! We can never forget thee."

     Around their father's grave the children stand,
     And mourning friends are shedding bitter tears;
     With sorrowing faces men are standing here,
     Whose tender love did bear him in their arms
     In sickness once, and now once more in death,
     Him who protector, friend, and helper was;
     And many eyes whose tears he wiped away,
     Are weeping at his narrow house to-day.

     When the frail vestments of the soul
     Are hidden in the tomb, what then remains to man?
     The memory of his deeds is ours.
     O sacred death, then, like the flowers of spring,
     Many good deeds are brought to light.
     Blessed and full of love, good children
     And true friends stand at his grave,
     And there with truth loudly declare,
     "A noble soul has gone to heaven;
     Rich seed has borne celestial fruit;
     His whole day's work now in God is done."
     Thus speak we now over thy grave,
     Our friend, now glorified and living in our hearts.
     A lasting monument thou thyself hast built
     In every heart which thy great worth has known.

     Yes, more than marble or than brass, our love
     Shall honor thee, who dwellest in our hearts.
     These tears, which pure love consecrates to thee,
     Thou noble man, whom God has called away
     From work which He himself has blessed,--
     These grateful tears shall fall upon the tomb
     That hides the earthly garment of our friend.

     O, let us ne'er forget the firm and earnest mind
     Which bore him swiftly onward in his course;
     How from a slender twig he built a bridge
     O'er which he safely hastened to the work
     Which youthful hope and courage planned.
     Think how the circle of his love embraced
     His children and his children's children, all,
     His highest joy their happiness and good.

     Think how he labored for the good of all,
     Supporter, benefactor, faithful friend!
     How with his wise and powerful mind
     He served and blessed his native place!
     His works remain to speak his praise.
     How did his generous, noble spirit glow
     With joy at all the good and beautiful
     Which time and human skill brought forth!
     He ever did the standard gladly gain
     Which light, and truth, and justice raised;
     And when his noble efforts seemed to fail,
     Found ever in his pure and quiet breast a sweet repose.

     We give to-day thy dust to dust.
     Thy spirit, thy true being, is with us.
     Thou art not dead; thou art already risen.
     Loved friend, thou livest, and thou watchest o'er us still.
     Be dry our tears; be hushed our sighs;
     Victor o'er death, our friend still lives;
     Takes his reward from the Great Master's band.
     Deep night has passed away. On him
     Eternal morning breaks. He,
     From the dark chamber of the grave,
     Goes to the light of the All-holy One.

     Weep, weep no more! Look up with hope on high!
     There does he dwell. He liveth too on earth.
     The Master who has called him hence to higher work,
     To-morrow will call us--perhaps to-day.
     Then shall we see him once again. He, who went home
     From earth in weakness and in pain,
     Is risen there in everlasting joy and strength.
     Till then we here resolve to live like him,
     That we, like him, may die religious, true, and free.

When any little boy reads this true story of a good, great man, I
would have him remember that Henry began to be a good, great man
when only eight years old. Henry began by being industrious,
patient, and good humored, so that people liked to buy his sticks.
Then he was faithful and true to his father, and would not leave
him, not even for the sake of gaining some advantages. Henry used
all his faculties, and, by making his pretty canes, he got money,
not to buy sugar plums, but to pay for instruction. When he did
wrong, he took his punishment cheerfully, and did not commit the
same fault again. All the virtues which finally made him a good,
great man he began to practise when he was only eight years of age,
when he was really a little boy.

I would have every little boy and girl who reads this story try to
imitate him. If he is poor, let him learn to do something useful, so
to earn money that may help his father and mother, and perhaps be
the means of giving him a better education. If he is rich, let him
seek to get knowledge, and let him remember those who have not as
much as he has, like little Eva, who taught Uncle Tom. Let him
remember that the selfish and the lazy cannot be truly happy; that
selfishness is its own punishment in the end; that no children and
no men are truly happy or truly good who do not obey the words of
the noble-minded Henry on his death-bed--

     "Be useful, and love one another"



MY DEAR FRANK: I was much pleased with your writing me a letter. If
you were to take a piece of paper, and do up some sugar plums in it,
and send it to me, I should eat up the sugar plums, and then there
would be nothing left but the piece of white paper; but if you take
a piece of paper, and mark on it with a pen some crooked and some
straight, some round and some long strokes, they tell me, though
they make no noise, that you love me, and they seem just like little
messengers from you to me, all with something to tell me of my dear
little Frank.

Besides, after these messengers have spoken once, there they stand
ready to speak again as soon as I only look at them, and tell me the
same pleasant story the second time that they did the first.

If I were to put them away in a safe place for forty years, and then
look at them, when you were beginning to be an old man, these
crooked scratches of your pen would still talk to me of little
Frank, as he was when I held him in my lap, and we used to laugh,
and talk, and tell stories together.

Think, then, my dear Frank, how much better it is to be able to fill
a letter with these curious strokes to send to a friend than to have
bushels of sugar plums to send him.

Did you ever think what curious things these little letters are? You
know the great Bible that you love to look at so much, and to hear
father read from. All the wonderful things related in it are told by
twenty-six little letters.

It is they that tell you of the creation of the world, of the
beautiful garden called Eden in which Adam and Eve lived; they tell
you the sad story of their disobedience to God, and of their being
turned out of paradise.

Then they tell you all about the Israelites, or Jews, as we call
them. In the same book, these twenty-six letters place themselves a
little differently, and tell you the story of Joseph and his
brethren that you were so much pleased with when your father read it
to you, and that of David and Goliath, that you like so much.

Then these same wonderful story tellers relate to you the beautiful
history of Daniel; of that courageous, good man who chose rather to
be torn to pieces by wild beasts than not to pray every day to God,
and thank Him for His goodness; and how God preserved him in the
lion's den.

The wonderful story of Elijah they also tell you, and many others.

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