I  cannot  utter  words  of  common  consolation
here.  There  are  all  the  usual  consolations,  and
more.  There  is  the  thought  of  the  Infinite  God,
just  and  loving — of  the  kind  and  tender  Provi-
dence, which  allows  nothing  to  be  wasted,  which
picks  up  the  fragments  of  our  broken  existence,
ties  together  the  loose  threads  of  our  activity,  ar-
ranges our  life-plan,  makes  good  the  imperfection
of  our  labor,  and  perfects  itself  in  our  weakness,
suffering  not  even  the  little  ones  to  perish,  and
permitting  no  good  hope  to  fail ;  there  is  the
thought  of  a  vast  hereafter,  where  every  life  shall
be  made  complete.  These  consolations  are  for
all  in  ordinary  times ;  for  those  whose  friends  are
cut  off  by  untimely  accident,  if  we  may  speak  of
untimeliness  or  accident  in  this  world  of  God's ;
for  those  whose  dear  ones  die  of  their  own  igno-
rance, error,  foolishness,  and  vice.  For  these
friends  of  ours  we  have  more  than  this  ;  the  sym-
pathy of  a  great  multitude,  the  fellowship  of  an
immense  company  of  noble  mourners,  the  tender


THE  FIGHTING  QUAKERS.  100

respect  and  love  of  strangers,  the  recognition  of  a
country,  the  unspoken,  perhaps  unconscious,  grat-
itude of  those  ready  to  perish.  The  memory  of
such  a  career,  of  such  a  character,  is  alone  conso-
lation sufficient  for  more  than  ordinary  grief.
