The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1879-11-07
FRIDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER Z.
Edward Payson Weston.
A Touching Tribute to His Memory.

The following is the closing portion OF the
discourse delivered at the funeral OF Professor
E. P Weston, by his friend Professor j. b. l..
Soule, at Highland Hill, Chicago:
Our dear friend and brother, the echo of
whose cheerful voice has hardly yet died on
our ears was a disciple Of Christ. Looking
back to my earliest acquaintance with him,
when he was seventeen years old, well re-
member not only his sparkling mind and his
yiyacious spirit, but also the beautiful SIM
plicity of his youthful piety. He was "child
of the covenant" And God has kept the COW
enant made between himself and that devoted
father. when he offered this child on the altar
of his faith, three score years ago. His faith
er's voice in Christian worship, both at the
family altar and from the pulpit, was among
the first Ineligible sounds of his experience.
THUS early imbued with the spirit OF rever-
ence and love for sacred things, he may be
said to have grown up in Christ rather than to
have been converted to Christ. Or the char
acter of his piety in manhood, | need not
speak where he has been so well known. l
think many present will readily call to mind
the clearness of his views of TRUTH and the
childike tenderness of his religious emotions,
conditions of mind and feeling which can
come only of heart experience
There is not time on this occasion to enter
into review of his practical life, so busy and
so Astounding in good fruits, nor to attempt an
analysis of his intellectual and moral traits.
LII WOULD DE II DlGdSdut anu pIOutdpio tHtinS'
AS an editor of literary journal and monthly
magazine; as Superintendent of Public In
struction for succession of years in the State
of Maine; as the principal of four different lit.
erary institutions of the grade and character OF
this;-in all these offices and positions he ac-
quilted himself with such signal success as
eYinced great skill as an organizer, and rare
executive ability. His accuracy of judgment
and delicacy of taste were so marked that it
might be said of him as was said of cele-
brated poet of the last century:
''Nil tetigit quod non ornayit,'
But it is enough for us to know and rejoice
that with him the great end of life has been
gained A filial son, the prop and comfort of
his aged parents-a tender and faithful hus-
band, iudicious and loving father, a friend
whose affections were fraternal, teacher
whose peculiar wisdom and skill never al
lowed the intellectual to overshadow the spir-
itual, citizen with sympathies alive TO
every righteous cause, a Christian who new
er failed to let his light shine; what else was
there for him to do, that human weakness is
capable of doing? There is no calamity then
about this event. What may seem to be calamity
belongs 10 those of us who are left. And yet
our sorrow should be short. The sundering
of these tender ties to such an one must bring
pain and tears. But with him il is rest; with
with him it is peace; with him it is victory;
with him it is salvation finished! We call it
death, bat it is Christ sending Tor one OF his
jewels.
Let these thoughts then be our consolation.
And in this chapel where the voice now silent
has been heard so often in prayer and praise,
let us pray and sing rather than mourn. And
from this chapel, now sacred to his memory,
let us go home more mindful of the duties of
life, and more thoughtful of its end.
Prof. Soule concluded by reading the follow
ing from an original poem by Prof. Weston,
sent to his class reunion at Bowdoin College
last July-the fortieth anniversary of gradua.
ton. The lines would form an appropriate
epitaph for him who penned them for pur-
pose so different:
o college days and college friends
How strange thrill your memory sends
To all our trembling fingers ends!
o living memories of the dead!
o shadows to the shadows fled,
With tender touch and silent tread!
Yet loves least labor wrought for men
Shall spring to fresher life again.
And bear its golden fruitage, when
The hand that wrought lies cold AID STILL
And pulseless heart and weary will
Cease all their Office to fulfill
o brothers, when the setting
Shall call us from days work done,
Our lives all crowed with yictoriS won,-
May heavens own glory gd the West,
Hope calm the throbbing of each breast
And Faith lay hold on promised rest!