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YALE UNIVERSITY I

Christian Examiner for September, 18SS.
Biographical Notices of l.lr. Charles Hayward, jr., and
T^r. Samuel T. Ilildreth. ¦
Cambridge, 1839.

"I give thefe Books
for the fovnd'ng if a. College in this Colony'

'Y^LIE'WIMlIVlEI^SflirY-

Gift of
Prof. Henry W, Farnam

BIOGHAPHIOAL NOTICES ^m, UNIVERSITY

OF

' "p.nA^

Mr. CHARLES HAYWARD, Jr.,

Mr. SAMUEL T. HILDRETH.

Reprinted with Additions from the Ciwiistiab Examiner
FOR September, 1839.

CAMBRIDGE:
METCALF, TORRY, AND BALLOU.
MDCCC XXXIX.

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES.

Since the last Commencement at Cambridge, the University
has been saddened by the loss of some of its most gifted sons.
Two ofHcers of its government, and two students, have fallen
victims to the same disease. Sickness has been unusually prev
alent, death fearfully busy, in that.htffe world. The lesson has
again been enforced, that neither youth nor high hopes, neither
outward beauty, nor inward purity, nor the promise of useful
ness, can be depended upon for protection against their fearful
attacks. The students mentioned above were caffed away in the first
months of their College course ; — before time had been al
lowed for them to be well or extensively known, — before
their appearance had become so familiar as to cause their
absence to be often noted and painfull)^ felt. But these re
marks apply in no degree to Mr. Hayward and Mr. Hildreth,
who had been connected with the University more than five
years, and to whom a charge in its government had been com
mitted. Nor can any apology be needed for laying before the
public the facts contained in the following pages. Cut off in
the midst of youth, when visions of extended usefulness were
just opening upon their view, they have left to surviving friends
a rich inheritance in the example they set of benevolence and
purity, and in the pleasant and holy associations with which
their memories will ever be coupled. We would not willingly
give them up to the remembrance of private friendship alone ;
for theirs were characters whose influence must have been felt
far beyond the limits of any narrow circle.
To one who considers the objects to the furtherance of which
our pages are devoted, there will appear a peculiar propriety in
our commemorating the lives of Mr. Hayward and Mr. Hil-

dreth ; since the highest hopes had been formed of their future
eminence and usefulness both as religious teachers and as literary
men. In their loss the public has the deepest interest ; for in
those like them must it ever, under Providence, put its trust.
No events in private life are more deeply afliictive than such as
thus destroy the hopes of man ; no dispensations of God
more mysterious than such as thus caff away in the rnorning of
their days those who seemed born to extend the blessings of the
Gospel of Truth.
The lesson taught by the well-spent lives and early deaths
of these young men ought not to fall to the ground. Nor can
it ; for in a pure and spoffess life lies the highest of teachings.
On their careers death has now set the signature of complete
ness. Their agency has been cast like a seed into the field of
time ; and its fruits can never be entirely lost. For no man
can live in this world without exerting a great influence, either
for good or for evil. The influence of a man of genius and
education, then, must be quite incalculable. No matter how
narrow the stage, or how short the duration of the life-drama,
this is something which can never die. In commemorating the
virtues of Mr. Hayward and Mr. Hildreth, we believe we are
merely giving honor where honor is due. Future years wffl
point out this and that man, who were influenced by them, as
public benefactors ; when, perhaps, were the secrets of hearts
unveiled, and the truth known, we should find that we ought to
look upon them as the authors of the blessings for which we
thank others. We know that fellow-students will always regard
their departed friends as most important instruments in the for
mation of their characters ; that pupils will long and often
recall a kindness which relieved unpleasant tasks of their irk-
someness, at the same time that it encouraged to perseverance.
There were many coincidences in their lives, which make it
proper to introduce their names in connexion. They were
classmates ; associated together as editors of a literary periodical
while undergraduates ; alike respected by their instructers at
College, alike honored by their fellow-students at their departure
from it. They were personal friends ; for years sate at the
same table, and day after day were side by side in the recitation-
room and chapel. They were born in the same year, and
each lived a few weeks beyond the age of twenty-one. If so
many circumstances in their lives were alike, some accompany
ing their deaths were not less similar. The same disease, as

was mentioned above, proved fatal to both. As if forewarned
of the future, each had examined his papers, arranging some
and destroying others, only a few days previous to the com
mencement of his illness. And each, from the first attack, was
strongly impressed wffh the belief that he should not recover.
Both expired just as the stillness of the Christian Sabbath was
giving place to the busffe of a new secular week. Farther,
and more than all, both were animated with the same high
hopes of usefulness as teachers in the Church, — both died in
the faith of Jesus.
The Writer of these pages is not unaware that, in speaking of
his departed classmates, he cannot present the higher phases of
their characters, — cannot so speak of them that those who
knew them better shaff feel no deficiency ; — cannot portray
their excellencies so but that the very highest in their natures
shall seem unrecorded. Class-feehng is undoubtedly among
the good things of our University ; — to be reckoned as a main
instrument of its culture ; — for some minds a more effective
incitement than any attention on the part of an instructer, or
any honors held out to the diligent. But it is not often a sen
timent of a very elevated or deep-reaching character. Even
friendship, which frequently grows out of it, does not, and by
the nature of the case cannot, meet the higher social wants of
the soul, or provoke entire confidence. The time for old Gre
cian friendship has passed away with the introduction of " the
fireside religion of the Gospel," — with the blessings of a Chris
tian home, — with the elevation of woman to her proper rank
as a social and intellectual being. If one of our most " de
termined students of human nature " has " long since given up
the hope of ever fully understanding any man," how impossible
such a task to one whose opportunities of observation have been
limited to a few, and those not the highest, aspects of character.
Yet the friendship of classmates is often deep and pure, and
attains a strength which bids defiance to time and death.
Hence the danger, in writing a sketch like the present, of giving
partial representations and undeserved encomiums. The author
of these pages, aware that ignorance and zeal are oftenest the
parents of falsehood, has tried to avoid all exaggeration, and
has also endeavored to get such an understanding of the char
acters of his friends, as might ensiire accuracy as far as he should
go.. The following sketches make no pretensions to complete-

ness. A few of the most important facts in the lives of each
are given, together with a few words from their pens, illus
trative of the way in which they regarded life. Mr. Hayward,
who was earliest called to a higher state of existence, wiff here
be noticed first.
Charles Hayward, Jr., was born in Boston, on the Sth of
September, 1817. After the usual preparation, he entered the
Latin School of that city in 1828 ; and was thence removed to
the University in Cambridge, in the autumn of 1833. Among
his classmates he was noted from the first for his diligence ; nor
were his studies confined to the prescribed course. He found
time, and wanted not inclination, to make himself acquainted
with the choicest literary treasures of our language, besides sus
taining a most honorable rank with his instructers. The goal
where many stop was to him but the starting-point for further
progress. Though surrounded by the most trying circumstan
ces, as a member of the lowest and most inexperienced class
during a period of unprecedented excitement and violence, his
conduct was unexceptionable. That he felt for his classmates,
could excite no surprise in the Faculty. That he should lend
a hand to the criminal extravagances which sometimes so sadly
disgrace our halls of learning, was never expected of him by
bis fellow-students. That was not his way of expressing his
feehngs. Considerations of duty would have restrained him ;
and leaving these out of the question, his taste must have dic
tated another course.
He brought to Cambridge a fondness for Dramatic Lfferature
and exhibitions, which had been early awakened in him. Many
of his childish sports were prompted by this passion. One
who heard him speak of his early visits to the Theatre, could
not fail to be reminded of Lamb's exquisite essay, " My First
Play." And to a child of a warm imagination and generous
feelings, who, moreover, has no idea of what a hell upon earth
is around him, few scenes can be conceived more attractive.
We are aware that many would regard it as a cause for reo-ret,
if one of their young friends betrayed any love of the drama.
For theatres, indeed, such as disgrace our cities, and corrupt so
many of our young men, not a word can be said. But we do
believe that a better order of things might be created. We
conceive that the drama is as rational and effective a means of
public improvement, as many which claim a proud superiority

over it. We rejoice, therefore, when a young man of principle
and genius becomes interested in it. We look with longing
eyes upon his endeavors, and ask whether this may not be the
builder of our future stage. The wider the chasm which divides
ideal excellence from the reality, the nobler we feel his self-devo
tion to be, who precipitates himself Curtius-like, into the gulf
It was about the middle of his College course that Mr. Hay
ward commenced his Tragedy. He called it " The Albimonti."
It was finished when he was nineteen, and brought out at the
Tremont Theatre in Boston, at the close of the second term of
his senior year. The evening of its first performance was a
proud one for his numerous friends, from whom the deficiencies
of the play were hidden in their affection for the author, or lost
in their admiration of its excellences. Though this production
was not without great merit, being graced by some brilliant
passages, a-nd containing many good conceptions of character,
we have reason to believe that the author was far from satisfied
with it. He wrote it before his mind was fully matured ; and
before his ideal of dramatic composition had attained the eleva
tion which afterwards characterized it. He had sketched the
plan of another Tragedy, in which he probably would, had his
life been spared, have embodied many higher conceptions and
the fruits of deeper study.
Yet we cannot but think that the drama was not the province
of literature, in which his manly strength would have chosen its
arena. This was an early love of his, but many reasons make
us think it would have proved a temporary one. Though in
commencing his studies at Divinity Hall, he distinctly entered
his protest against the renunciation of so many opportunities of
doing good as are common among American clergymen, yet his
mind must there have been so drawn to other pursuits, as to
affow him, to say the least, slight leisure for gratifying this early
fondness ; and in entering upon professional life, other scenes of
duty would probably have won his heart, and claimed the de
votion of aff his powers.
The Harvardiana had been started by the students at Col
lege in 1 834. At the close of their junior year, Mr. Hayward,
Mr. Hildreth, and a friend from whose labors as Professor of
Philology in the Exploring Expedition much information is
expected with regard to the language of the South Sea Island
ers, were chosen editors. The last was soon called away from
CoUege by his appointment, and the whole care of the periodi-

8
cal was devolved upon them. One who knew the circum
stances under which nearly every piece was composed, who
understood something of the state of mind which gave rise to
each, and was perfectly familiar with the little allusions which
give such a zest to the literature of College days, should not
trust himself in an estimate of its merits ; and therefore We
forbear all attempts to characterize the third volume of this
Journal. We merely subjoin the following extract from Mr.
Hayward's Life in the Class-Book : *
" Among other petty sins which will sometimes rise up against
me, I have assisted in editing, during our senior year, a College
periodical ; a fact only worthy of mention, in that it has made
me more intimately acquainted, than I might otherwise have been,
with several of our class who have assisted us, and with two in
dividuals whom I shall regard with affection long after the pages
of ' Harvardiana ' have been hidden with dust."
Mr. Hayward's public performances in the University had
always been marked by eloquence and good sense. And when
the time for the separation of the class arrived, he was selected
for the duty of pronouncing the farewell address. His election
was not unopposed ; for this is esteemed at College the highest
honor attainable ; — the testimony of a class not only to intel
lectual excellence, but to eminence in all the social virtues.
The intimates of others, however, could not be displeased, if
the election was not to fall upon their candidate, that it fell
upon him. We can in no way give a better idea of his views
of life, than by presenting a few of the words with which he
bade adieu to the scene of his youthful discipline, when he,
and the friends whom four years of mutual kindness had en
deared to him, were just about to enter upon its realities. After
alluding to some painful thoughts which might very naturally
be suggested by the occasion, he said,
" But this is not altogether a day of melancholy associations ;
a body of young men of cultivated minds, and with tastes re
fined by intellectual communion with the past, setting forth into
the world to assume new duties and responsibffities, and relyino-
* A Book in which each student, about the end of his College course,
records the day and place of his birth, -with such autobiographical
sketches as he may choose to impart to his classmates. It is deposited
with the Class Secretary, who annexes to each " Life," the time and
place of the death of its author.

on hopes bright in the early sunshine of life, is a sight which
may delight the young and gladden the eye of age. During
our college course we have doubtless given more than one
anxious hour to speculations on the world we are just entering.
I believe it is a characteristic of young men to indulge in occa
sional moments of doubi ; to cast shade into the picture they
draw. They are sometimes inclined to inaction, when they con
sider how long and hardly they must strive, before the haughty
and successful and cold and selfish wffl give them a place.
Probably we have all sometimes so felt, when thinking on the
world. Passion and dissension since the memory of the oldest
have been there contending, — folly and idleness and crime have
not been absent for one moment ; the good have fallen and the
wicked have prospered, — the grave has opened, and the fair
have descended to its keeping, and then the confusion has con
tinued as before.
" But it ill becomes us to view life so sadly ; we are peculiar
ly obliged as men who have improved their advantages, to leave
such reflections to the unintellectual. In fact, education has done
nothing for us, unless we see through all changes benevolence
and beautiful design, which tell us by ten thousand tongues that
ours is a God of love, and his world a manifestation of himself.
This is the duty and privilege of inteffectual men. Theirs has
been and is to be a life of poetry. I know very well that mis
fortune will not shun them ; intriguing malice has no reverence
for them, and poverty oftenest chooses them for its victims. But
all this is external, and the intellect, in its beauty and freshness,
is internal ; and in these depressing circumstances, discerns a uni
formity of beauty in the outward world ; its contemplations are
lofty, its affections are hallowed, the powers which make man
immortal have been awakened. The spirit of former ages, lin
gering after the body has departed, and the harmonies of nature,
speak to it, and it should not hear the voices of ingratitude and
despondency." After stating his purpose of speaking, at that time, of the
poetry of an intellectual life, and guarding against any narrow
interpretation of the word " intellectual," Mr. Hayward pro
ceeded thus ;
" It was a question asked by King Charles XII., ' Is it not enough
of life, when I have conquered kingdoms .' ' I believe few words
are wanted to show us that the boasting conqueror had not lived
long enough even to learn life's object. He dealt all his life in
humiliating objects of ambition ; the world early ensnared him,
and its passions and ephemeral gratifications crowded upon him
2

ID
forever ; his standard was success ; his precious treasure the
tribute-money of the captive ; and his most glorious aspiration,
renewed e-xertion and victory. He never once awakened the
sleeping eagle, intellect, else ff had borne him to refined regions,
and he would have worshipped at another altar than ambition.
I am not, of course, detracting from great names ; they will ever
shine on the world's scroll ; but time will be when that scroll
shaff perish, while the one on which the great in intellect are
enrolled, will rise from the destruction of years, imperishable
forever. "A victorious king may content himself with his conquests ;
but a man of cultivated powers sets no bounds to his destiny.
What he acquires, but assures him of the previous litdeness of
his knowledge, and the further capabilities of the principle which
unites him with a higher inteffigence. The objects, the hopes,
and the spheres of action of the two men, are perfectly distinct.
" Friedrich Schiller, in speaking of his friend Goethe, with
whom he lived in perfect communion, remarked ; ' Much, that
now interests me, has already had its epoch with him.' And so,
doubffess, Goethe might have said of another. An onwardness,
if I may make a word, is the peculiar characteristic of inteffect.
We look back upon our early years, and the improvements of
education and a new fund of thought in our minds are obvious,
and not many years will elapse, before the stores which we to
day take with us from the University, will appear in their turn
insufficient. It is so with the action of mind at every age, and
in every pursuit. Some of us will embrace the professional life,
— others be devoted exclusively to science ; but all shall find the
march of intellectual power to be unceasingly onward. The
philosopher may investigate, and delight in discovery, the pro
fessional man may take pride in his mental discipline, the poet
may thrill with the rapture of his art ; but a few years will tell
us of our imbecility, a few more of further progress, and when
our great extremity arrives, the work will still be undone. But
we shall then go to complete it ! Death will, indeed, find us
' but as children, who have been picking up pebbles on the sea
shore of the great ocean of truth,' but it will free us to launch
into and sail over that boundless ocean, of which, from our earth-
bound station, we have only caught a glance in an infinite dis
tance !
" The warrior may conquer ; but his conquests are through
the blood, and against the best affections of the human heart.
Not so the conquests of an intellectual life. Mankind, it is said,
have lost their dignity ; the busffe of the world has dragged im
mortal beings from their elevation. Whether the charge be true

11
or not, let us recollect, that it is the peculiar province of intellec
tual men to uphold the dignity of their race. The lower gratifi
cations allure the sensual, and attract the mercenary. Many
live as if the seventy years on earth completed, instead of hardly
commencing existence, and even those were not worth spending
well. Your own observation will attest the truth of this remark.
Now against all this has been set the opposing force of intellect ;
to enlighten with sublime creations, to invest the old with the at
tractions of novelty, and to give human thought a higher direction
than sensuality, — these are what men of intellect live for. ' It
is they,' to use the words of another, ' that keep awake the finer
parts of our souls ; that give us better aims than pleasure, and
withstand the total sovereignty of Mammon on this earth.' *
" If I have expressed myself intelligibly, you wiff perceive the
charm of life to which I allude, and which it is no vanity to say
a liberal education puts within one's reach. I have mentioned
the poetry of nature ; true the dullest are not shut out from the
beauties around them, but only the thinking and refined, whether
naturally or artificially, can interpret what they see. When the
inward principles are alive, the outward voices of the creation
find an echo in man, and a flood of joy and intelligence pours
into his heart. To a debased man, the cataract is but a sheet of
water, the icy mantle of winter but an easier mode of transporta
tion, the shower but an intruder on his labor, the opening of the
bud but an assurance of good gain in the market, and the coming
of spring but the saving of fuel.
" The material world should have ffs place in our regard, but
unless we see how the intellect governs, directs, and interprets it,
it is a dead letter. It is the stepping-stone, if I may so speak,
between us and a purer region ; and if it be too much to say,
that better spirits are lurking in the wonders of nature, it is re
volting to the truly intellectual, that they be regarded as trees,
and stones, and cliffs. God speaks to us in the cataract ; the
spring and budding leaf are agents in His beautiful system ; and
tlie falling of the flowers, and the icy shroud, only declare that
all of us ' shall leave
Our mirth and our employments, and shall go
And make our bed with them.' "
Farther on, occurs the following upon life in cities.
" The thousand human hearts which there beat, the scenes of
duty and suffering, the struggling against temptation, the hop-
* Carlyle's Life of Schiller.

^.- . 12
ing through darkness in the strength of faith, the self-denial, the
filial gratitude, and the happy homes which are there, — these
constitute the poetry of cities. They go to complete an univer
sal system, and to show man in a new aspect. The wretched
are to be relieved by the pious, and the degraded enlightened by
the intellectual. Character were but half developed, but for
these congregations of men, intellect but half exercised, and sym
pathy in a great measure inactive."
" I cannot help fancying that afTeclionale regard partakes of
something holy, when intellect is concerned. Does not mental
cultivation hallow the regard of a son for his parent ? I do not
say increase, but refine, direct, and cement it ? And does not a
mother's love grow purer, as she contemplates an intellectual
son ! If there be one moment when she may be proud, is it not
when she marks the expanding and maturing intellect, of course
directed by moral responsibility, in a son .' She has loved be
fore, becau.se she was a parent ; now she knows why she loves.
She loves herself in him, — she watches him, when in the toU,
or honors, or perplexities of life he is forgetful of her ; his tri
umphs are doubly hers ; and a return of this afTection has often
smoothed the death-pillow. A mother''s regard would have added
glory to the grandest triumphs of Shakspeare, or Milton. Na
poleon bade his mother stand in his imperial presence. Gray,
the poet, lamented with beautiful simplicity, as her days were
nearly numbered, that ' he could have but one mother.' "
Speaking of the differences of individual minds, he remarks ;
" The same sources of inspiration have been open to all, —
beauty in nature, grandeur in art, and wonder in the history of
the past; and yet observe the various productions of men. The
same breeze blows steadily on all, and yet each harp sends forth
different music ; the one attuned to the melancholy and sublime,
another thrilling with gayer notes, and aff blending in the gen
eral anthem of praise." » * *
" There are, besides, some minds, increasing the variety, which
are secret in their adoration ; poets, who feel and perceive, but
entertain holy thoughts, undisturbed by the admiration of the
world ; who, blushing at the idea of wearing the poet's laurels,
have felt themselves better men in the opening of morning, or
the calmness of evening, — banishing the hopes of traffic, and
hushing the desires for distincUon. Could the secrets of
those minds be revealed, who have secured truth in all its
beauty, tracing it to its original, and worshipping, simple-hearted,
at its shrine, till the veil of the flesh was rent asunder before

13
them, there would be a richer volume than phffosophy or poetry
has ever given to the world."
* * * *
" But all this is, if I may so speak, the poetry of the Present ;
besides which, educated men are admitted to the poetry of the
Past and the Future. An intellectual man is not a being of one
age ; a few years are nominally his existence : but the stream
from which the high minds of olden times delighted to draw, has
not shrunk from its original amplitude, and has collected no weeds
upon its surface in its descent to him. We do not think often
enough on this subject ; we say, we live but awhile, and then die.
The great of the past have gone, the grave-stone only tells where
their remains rest ; their spirits have departed. But we should
correct the expression. They linger to bless their posterity ;
they are lingering in the alcoves of yonder library ; in the forms
of beauty, and the visions of truth, whh which study and reflec
tion have made us intimate. They love lo look back from the
world of light, to welcome us to their inspirations, to their stores
of knowledge, to their views of man and of his Creator, and to
transmit to us what their lives were spent in acquiring. We take
up science where they left it, and let not the cause of good learn
ing and philosophy suffer in our hands.
tf * * *
" We are now but young men ; but change follows change
very speedily, and before long ' we shall look in vain for our
elders ; and the mutual recognition wffl be, that an old man stops
his trembling step, leans upon his cane, aud peeping through his
dim glasses on a face almost as wrinkled, and a form almost as
bent as his own, nods his white head at a classmate I But what
should that season be .' Not the blind dotage of passion or folly,
but a calm consciousness of immortal possessions. I will not
attempt to picture what each can best imagine, and what the ad
vantages we have had should enable us to enjoy, intellectual
age ! True, the peculiarities of the threescore years and ten
will be ever the same ; and who would wish it otherwise ? But
satisfaction of past pursuits, the longing to see beyond life, the
knowledge that all truth will be there revealed, and that what the
best here begin wffl there be continued, — all these welcome to
such men the great and generally dreaded dissolution.
" I see that change has not spared even our number. Many
who met us on the day of entrance do not witness our departure.
Circumstances have taken them from amongst us. One, as full
of hope and life as any here, death has removed. He fell in the
strength of manhood, and he bore with him the love of his class-

14
mates. He has gone where changes are not known, — to a re
gion, for which he was prepared." *
We conclude our extracts with the final paragraphs of the
Address. " And now, classmates, the few words which remain are for us
alone. This moment brings to us a singular mixture of feelings.
We are going from scenes that we love, from persons nearly
aOied to us, and yet the hopes of our age would not permit us to
remain. If our pursuits call us onward, it is also true that our
course of thought and study have made associations doubly bind
ing ; and the past and the present are enticing us with syren
voices to continue as careless and as happy, as we have thus far
been. But we must turn deafly away. As the moment draws
near, it seems as though attachments were becoming stronger
than ever ; and even the familiar chapel walls grow fairer, as we
look on them for the last time. The pleasant walk, the retired
haunts, to which for four years we have loved to stroll ; the hap
py faces, the friendly visit, the jesting argument, the high hopes,
the daily kindnesses, are now to be left for severer exertions,
for less ease, for new and fewer friends, and perhaps for less
happiness. " We are going to a community, in which we cannot soon hope
to gain a place ; our little society is now to be broken up. We
are going to all parts of our country, and it is not impossible that
the parting grasp of the hand wiff be of many of us the last to
ken. We shall never meet as now we part ; we may again come
together, but never what we now separate ; never vvith feelings
so warm, regrets so vivid, and good-will so cordial ! We shall
fall into the honors and stations of the world. From year to year
a few old men will gather at this place ; some laden with worldly
success, and others, it may be, soured with disappointment, to
throw off their cares, and remember that they were classmates !
It seems incredible that four years should have created so many
bonds of aflfection as those which we are about to break. We
are going we know not to what ; to misfortune it may be, to
old age and death it must be. I cannot bear to look around,
and think, that some beloved faces we see today for the last
time ! Not many days ago we heard a remark from an instruct
er, which now seems to have grown fearfully true ; ' In many
* « Edward H. Kettell died March 17, 1837, at Santa Cruz, whither he
had gone with the hope of recovering his health. He is the only one
whom we have lost A kind, warm-hearted fellow, and a true Chris
tian." S. T. H. JVofe to Class Poem, doled Mif 15, 1837.

15
of you,' said he, ' the seeds of death are already sown, and no
human power can remove them.' This comes sadly over our
affections. But so it is. We go in doubt, we go in sadness, but
let us at least go in love !
" irill-feeling, or prejudice has sprung up in our path, let it
this day be uprooted ! We bid each other a lasting and a hearty
farewell. If aught of unkindness has lurked in a single breast, I
know at that word it is banished. In the noise and busffe of the
world, let us watch each other's fortune, take pride in each oth
er's success, and keep an open heart in time of each other's
trouble. Then be our future life happy or miserable, we shall
be proud in the sympathy of our classmates ; proud, that those
whom chance threw together, affection indlssolubly joined ; that
not one discordant heart beat, or one morose wish survived,
when the tombstone was planted over the grave of our intimacy.
" We shall soon follow him of our number who has gone be
fore ; the cheek will lose its freshness, the eye grow dimmer and
dimmer, the mind leave this for another world, and one after
another this band of youth, and happiness, and ambition, wffl be
gathered to their resting-place. But picture to yourselves the
last survivor ; trembling, aged, and careless to common things ;
but to our subject stffl alive ! His eye will relume, his color re
sume its seat, and perhaps a smile light up the death-cheek, as
with eloquent and faltering tongue, he tells of the day, when, all
hopes high, and all hearts one, we parted in the college chapel."
At the Commencement in 1837, Mr. Hayward took his
Bachelor's degree with the honors due to his industry and per
severance. Soon after this, he sent to the press his " Life of
Sebastian Cabot," in which he had embodied in an abridged
form the information contained in the documentary work of Mr.
Biddle, besides collecting many facts from old authors relative
to his subject. The greater part of it was composed during the
vacation immediately preceding his graduation. It forms a part
of the ninth volume of Mr. Sparks's Library of American Bi
ography ; and shows, in connexion with other performances, a
versatility of talent, which promised excellence in many de
partments of literature. At the time of his death, he was a
contributor to the Knickerbocker. In the number for July,
1838, may be found a slight fictitious composition, which was
the fruit of a few leisure moments snatched from the study of
law ; for this was the pursuit which engaged him during the
first year after leaving College. And in that profession he
hoped to find the leisure for literary tasks which was so neces
sary for his happiness.

16
The love of nature, of the country, and of rural enjoyments,
were sentiments which were strong in his bosom from childhood.
In his Class Book Sketch, he mentions it as his " good fortune "
to ha le been " enabled to follow his natural inclination " in this
respect. He adds, " The quiet of Cambridge I shall be sorry
to forsake ; I hope I have learned from its many beauties of
scenery to regard the natural world as something higher than
mere trees and stones, — to see something above the material
in the beauffes around us." A part of the last summer of his
life was spent in a beautiful and secluded spot, about fifteen
miles from Boston ; and it was there that, in communion with
Nature and her God, he determined to forsake all lower am
bitions, and to devote himself to His service.
He entered the Divinity School in the autumn of 1838,
taking charge, about the same time, of the Sunday School con
nected with the Rev. Mr. Young's Church, which place of
worship his family attended. Thus to studying and teaching
the truths of religion the last days of his life were consecrated.
And though he was called away when his labors were scarcely
begun, we cannot but feel that they were blessed to others and
to himself His last day of health was spent in composing an
address for his Sunday School, which was delivered, October
21st, in spite of considerable indisposition. He returned to
Cambridge again, however; but on the Tuesday following took
a final leave of the place. Thirteen days after, November Sth,
he died. His disease was typhus fever. It was perhaps caus
ed, undoubtedly rendered more severe, by his excessive applica
tion. He had tasked himself beyond his constitutional strength,
upon the Hebrew Studies requisffe for entering his class. His
diligence was unremitting. The whole morning was given to
his professional studies ; and afternoon and evening generally
brought a change, not a cessation from labor. From industry
like his what was not to be expected ? Yet it was, perhaps,
ordained that it should defeat its own object.
We subjoin an obituary notice, first published in the Boston
Affas, and must then hasten to speak of its author :
" Mr. Hayward was a member of the class which graduated
at Harvard University in 1837. At the time of his death, he
was connected with the Divinity School at Cambridge, which he
entered a few weeks since. At College he ranked among the
first in point of scholarship, and his classmates can all bear testi
mony to his pure character and high moral worth.

17
" From a large circle of friends and relatives, one has been
taken away, whose presence was ever joyfully welcomed among
them, and whose loss cannot but be severely felt. To his fellow
students, who are now far separated from each other, the news
of his death will be in truth sad intelligence. They will remem
ber that on leaving Cambridge, a little more than a year ago, no
one among their number could look out upon the future with a
fairer prospect of long life and eminent usefulness, than seemed
to open before him, whose career has been thus suddenly
checked. " To those who knew him well, Mr. Hayward was endeared
by a thousand little traits of character, which cannot be describ
ed by words. In a motion, in an expression of countenance, or
a significant tone, they had their peculiar development. By these
his society was always rendered agreeable ; but Mr. Hayward
was something more than a pleasant companion. His aims, his
hopes, his wishes, were above this world. He spoke of Heaven ;
he believed in the soul's immortality. He strove for a higher
life than is shown in the common actions of men. Yet the
strength of early manhood, the attachment of friends who held
him most dear, deep parental affection, of which he was a cher
ished object, could avail nothing. With the bright summer that
has just gone over us, he too has irrevocably passed away.
" Amid the storm of politics, in the crowded street, in the noise
and bustle of life, his departure will be unnoticed ; but, in hearts
which have once known and loved him, there is laid up for him
a long and kind remembrance."
Samuel Tenney Hildreth was born at Exeter, N. H., Nov.
17th, 1817. His father was the Rev. Hosea Hildreth, an apos
tle of the temperance reformation, and one of the first movers in a
cause to which his hfe was devoted. Probably few individuals
can be named, whose agency was greater in this reformation, or
whose labors to advance it were more signally blessed. In at
tempting to sketch the life of the son, weshall use his own words
chiefly. The simple grace and truthfulness with which he tells
the story of his childhood in the Class Book, are beyond the
need of comment or of addition. It opens thus ;
" My life has not been one of incident. The only occurren
ces that have diversified it have been those of the world within.
All the thousand thoughts and feelings, which throng and swell
in the bosoms of the young, were ever and are now busy in my
own. My plans of future happiness, my hopes and fears, I have
told to no one, and to write them coldly upon paper my heart for-
3

18
bids. Even if 1 should do so, ff would only serve to create a
smile, and he who might read them would imagine 1 had brought
up a shadowy array from the land of dreams. Let them go, —
if they are merely ideal, time will soon convince me of their un
substantial ness." * * * #
" I have vivid recollections of my early years. The old tene
ment in which I first saw the light, the tall spire of the village
church, beneath whose roof I was baptized, and the broad elms,
in whose shade I have passed many a summer's afternoon, are
all distinct in my memory. My thoughts, too, what were they .'
Beyond my happy home, and the long yard in front of the vener
able mansion, perfectly yellow as it was with a profusion of but
tercups and dandelions, my wishes never strayed. And there
was no reason why they should, for no one was ever blessed with
a kinder father and mother, with dearer brothers and sisters than
myself." *****
" When I had reached my seventh year, my father, who had
been for about fifteen years instructer in mathematics at Exeter,
took up the clerical occupation, and left my naUve village for
Gloucester, Mass. Here a new scene was presented. I had
before seen the ocean once or twice, and had read many stories
of its wild storms, its mighty waves, and fathomless depths. I
had heard of mermaids and sea-monsters of all sorts, and listened
with rapture while some one was telling me of the strange, un
earthly music, that often floated over its wide wastes, and of
sounds fearful and startling, sent at midnight from its heaving
bosom. But a ship 1 had never seen. How shall I describe the
emotions that filled my breast, when, at the close of an autumn
day, just as the twUight was setting in, after having ridden a long
journey, my father turned round to me and said, ' There, boy, is
your future home. Look at the ocean, and those rough hills too,
— they are in Gloucester.'
" True enough, there was the ocean, and many a white saff
glimmered in the fading sunshine. There was the rocky shore,
from which I could hear the murmur of the billows, and there
too the bleak summits, on whose ragged cliffs I have since often
wandered, and recounted with a smile and a tear the joyous sen
sations which I then experienced. For some time I was com
pletely lost in the scenes that surrounded me. My new home, I
thought, was a chosen spot of the earth ; there I must be ever
happy. No king, when grasping the toiled-for object of his am
bition, no poet, when seizing the blest vision that imagination
has brought down from the clouds, feels a prouder pleasure than
sweffed in my own heart, as I rambled alone by the sounding
sea, or gazed upon the full-sailed ship, bounding over the dark

19
waters. Then, then, my dreams of bliss were more than real
ized. " But everything has a change. The freshness of eariy im
pressions gradually dies away, and we are not the creatures that
we were. I soon became familiarized with the objects about
me. They seemed a part of myself; I ceased to regard them
with wonder."
His eariy days at school do not seem to have been happy
ones. He says, " a schoolroom then was my utter abhorrence,
and my heart sunk whenever I crossed its dark threshold." At
a somewhat later period, he attended his uncle's school at Derry,
N. H., and then went into a store at Gloucester ; where, how
ever, he remained but a short time, as " merchandise, gold, and
sffver soon lost all charms for" him. In his thirteenth year, he
was sent to the Academy at Exeter.
" How pleasant was the appearance of my native village I
When I entered after a long absence its peacefql fields, and
wandered over my favorite haunts, all the indifference to study
which formerly characterized me entirely vanished. By de
grees, I seemed led back to the love of learning. Dr. Abbot, the
principal of the academy, is a man worthy of all regard and
affection. Under his kind instructions, I made praiseworthy im
provement ; and here I am, ready to bear testimony to his gen
erous nature and noble heart.
" Of the three years spent at Exeter, I could write mrch. But
' full hearts, few words.' I only say, that they will ever be con
sidered among the most important and the most happy of my
life. There 1 formed acquaintances and made friends ; friends,
who have grown dearer to me as time has elapsed, and acquaint
ances, whom I shall ever regard with the highest esteem.
" In my sixteenth year, I entered college. I have here found
many generous and noble souls. I can-truly call ' Old Harvard '
my' Alma Mater ; ' for she has brought me up amid high exam
ples, and cherished me with as much, aye more, tenderness than I
have deserved. 1 have spent my time pretty much as I wished ;
and, on a review, can see many things, which should have been
otherwise. By the kindness of friends, I have been enabled to
remain here during the last two years. I was on the point of
leaving in my sophomore year, as my parents felt themselves
unable to support me any longer. To those, who have thus as
sisted me, I feel the deepest gratitude, and hope to show my
thanks by the course of life which I shall endeavor to pursue.
" To my classmates I bid an affectionate farewell ! There is

20
not one among them in whom I do not feel great interest, and for
whom I do not call down the richest blessings. Whenever in
the world I may meet them, it will not be with coldness ; the
memory of our by-gone days will bring up a throng of cherished
associations. " I expect to take the office of a teacher for two or three com
ing years. Where I shall be located is as yet unknown to me.
After my school-keeping days are over, I intend to study Divin
ity ; but this is very uncertain. No one can be more fully aware
than myself of the importance and sacredness of this office, or
of the responsibility of undertaking it. It is not a summer task,
which we can lay aside or resume at pleasure, but an awfully
solemn labor, requiring clean hearts and clean hands, an ardent
zeal, an unwavering faith I
" I do not expect a long life ; I only hope that mine may be a
useful one. But, wherever my situation may be, how rosy or flinty
soever the path in which I must tread, still I shall not forget the
many obligations that bind me to my classmates, their kindness
and their love."
From the first days of his college life, Mr. Hildreth took the
highest place in the affections of his companions, and the esteem
of his instructers. He was one whom all delighted to honor, and
no opportunity of showing this delight was ever lost. When,
in the senior year, his eyesight failed him, there was almost a
contest among his young friends for the pleasure of reading
aloud to him the tasks of the day. And none who then, or
later in his life, performed litde kindnesses of this sort for him,
will soon forget the happy hours so spent. Great draughts
were made upon his time to meet the wishes of so many friends
as he had ; but this was cheerfully given, unless when higher
duties forbade.
His industry was great, though directed to other objects than
those of most of his fellow students. In point of scholarship,
he was among the highest in the class. He spent much
time in studying the works of the great masters of song. By
ron was at one time the " god of his poetical idolatry," and un
doubtedly exercised a great influence in the formation of his
intellectual habits. More lately Coleridge, and Wordsworth,
charming him by the healthy and natural tones of their music,
won him in a great degree from the fevered page of Byron.
Milton and Shakspeare he always loved, frorn the time that he
attained a proper age to read them. Among the classics, he

31
valued most Homer, Virgil, and Horace, which he regarded
with true love, after his school and college tasks therein were
finished. Many happy hours were passed in poetical composi
tion. Some of his poems were published in the Harvardiana ;
some were read before different societies to which he belonged ;
many, perhaps the most, never saw the light. They were the
records of certain states of mind ; and when he had lost all
sympathy with those states of mind, the records were de
stroyed. We give below some extracts from the Class Poem, which was
delivered on the same occasion as Mr. Hayward's Oration. We
observe, merely, that, in the space to which we are limited, we can
give but a feeble idea of the merits of the piece. It contains
an imaginary history of a student ; not of a bookworm, or a
pedant, but of a student of nature and of rnen ; not of a suc
cessful hunter after honor and praise, but of one whose every
hope and aspiration were doomed to be crushed by unkind
fate. It is not a little singular that the closing scene in the
career of the ideal character should, in more than one particu
lar, have resembled the last moments of the author's life. He
says of his hero, and those who knew him believe it was true
of himself that
" His was a gentle heart — in boyhood's hours
A brother of the rivulets and flowers !
A lover of the Beautiful, he sought
From earth and sky the lessons that she taught.
He traced her footsteps by the twilight sea,
When cloud and wave were at their jubilee ;
Or watched her farewell glance, from some tall cliff.
When floated down the West her slender skiff,
And as she vanished, from the depths of Blue
With tremulous smffe the stars came gazing through I
Or when the winds within their forest-hall,
Were busy with the song and festival,
He listened to the fluctuating tide,
That through the sylvan arches rolled and died,
And fancied with the airy billow's swell,
The music of her accents rose and fell ! "
In anofher connection we find the following ;
" The shout of Freedom and her noisy train.
The captive's prayer groaned o'er the rusty chain,

22
The beggar's curse, the homeless orphan's cry,
The banquet-song of midnight revelry,
The merry echo of the marriage-bell.
Or that slow tune — the weary sexton's knell,
Such are the sounds whose mingled notes must be
The prison-hymn of poor Humanity I
To-morrow our adventurer forth must go.
An actor in these scenes of joy or woe ! "
The foffowing lines occur as a reverie of the Student when,
just about to enter upon the duties of an active life, he was
treading for the last time his favorite walk.
" 'I would not fall unthought of and unknown.
Frail as a broken harp-string's dying tone !
But be remembered where bright faces meet
To number o'er their recollections sweet;
Where from the mourner's eye all hope has fled,
And sinking heart responds to fainting head ;
Where sighs the soul, true to her heavenly birth.
For treasures richer than the hoards of earth ;
Or where the weary spirit inly bleeds,
Bending in tears upon her broken reeds ;
And still she looks imploringly above,
Yearns for the shepherd's crook and rod of love,
And longeth for those gentle vales of rest.
That lie so tranquilly along the west.
Beyond the dreary hill, the sunlit peak.
The wasted plain, the mountain bare and bleak,
That skirt the horizon of life's feverish day,
And frown or smile where'er our footsteps stray.
" ' Mine be that joy, the widow's cot to bless,
And cheer with heavenrward thought her loneliness I
Make young again the pilgrim desolate,
Who weeps at evening hour beside my gate ;
To kindly bid the homeless ocean child
Forget the rudeness of his parent wild,
And mingle round the merry blazing hearth,
In all the artless innocence of mirth.
As happy as the wild bird of the glen,
I would not seek the busy haunts of men.
Nor ask the crowd to toss one venal wreath,
Nor build mist-castles from its fickle breath I
Embowered within some lone sequestered spot.
The glare and revelry of earth forgot,

23

Oh ! I would build — and never wish to roam —
Of warm affections and kind words my home !
With one sweet face to feed my soul with love.
One voice to waft her prayers with mine above,
With one soft hand, to gently smooth away
The gathering wrinkles from my brow of gray,
One voice to call me by the tenderest name
That ever human lips have learned to frame.
To breathe May-flowers upon life's waning year,
And sing me songs my boyhood loved to hear.'

" Long years had passed away ; with tottering frame,
Beside a new-made grave a sufferer came ;
From his bright eye the wonted fires had fled,
And wasting fevers on his cheek had fed.
While tremblingly upon his staff he bent.
Towards the dark bier an earnest glance he sent,
And o'er the slumberer laid in coldness there.
He seemed to watch with more than common care !
" The rites are soon performed ; with heavenly trust
Dust is committed to its parent dust.
The last green sod above her bosom thrown,
The train is gone — the mourner left alone !
Alone ! there 's something deadening in that word,
Which makes the blood creep slowly when 'tis heard ;
Called by its spell, what mingled visions crowd.
Of gentle smiles — warm hearts — the pall and shroud !
Alone } and tell me wherefore doth he stay,
Breathlessly gazing on that heap of clay .?
Vain questioner ! Such grief thou canst not know,
His life is buried there, why should he go .'
He lingered yet till yonder heavy bell
From its high tower flung out the last loud knell,
Then starting up as if a sudden gleam
Broke through the desolation of his dream,
He turned one hurried look upon the sod.
Then through the tangled pathway slowly trod.
Can this be he, whom lately we beheld
With all the pride of early hope impelled }
Who asked no other guide to cheer him on —
His deep resolve the staff he leaned upon —
Whose mind an armory of richest thought,
In hours of lonely meditation wrought,

24
From her bright stores could every weapon yield,
For life's stern conflict — sword, or spear, or shield.?
Is this the breast where nought but rainbows played,
Now deeply buried in so dark a shade ?
" A.S one who sees, but fears to join the mirth,
So had he looked upon the busy earth ;
Till with each hour his resolution less,
He grew enamored of his loneliness !
Yet he goes forth ! How all around him seems
Shrunk from the large conception of his dreams,
Unthought of snares his careless footsteps meet,
And where he hoped success he finds defeat !
" Borne down with disappointment he has lain
For long, long months upon a couch of pain,
And from that weary bed is lifted up.
Only to drink a harsher, bitterer cup I
One bosom friend he lacks — the faith sublime,
Who treads unmoved the resffess surge of time!
And though the unstable billows heave and beat,
In ceaseless spray beneath her angel feet,
Her gaze is fixed upon that far-off sky,
Where all her hopes and all her wishes lie ;
No veil of clouds o'erhangs her happy face.
To fold and shroud her in its dark embrace I "
And in want of such a bosom friend, what can our poor
Student do, but wander over the face of the earth, seeking rest
and finding none ; till finally nature sinks under the burden of
woe, and so his troubles end ? At brighter moments he could
solace himself wffh thoughts like these.
" ' Why should I faint,' cried he, ' when round my soul
Misfortune's gathered tempests darkly roll ?
Why should /sink.' — the sea-bird builds her home,
Unscared by angry ocean's brow of foam !
When round the cliff a thousand thunders ring.
With rapture fierce she screams a welcoming.
Darts through the up-tossed spray her arrowy form,
Outstrips the blast, and triumphs o'er the storm !
Why should I weep ? — hark with a playmate's voice,
The gladsome earth now calls me to rejoice,
And decked in all its artless splendor glows
The queenly tulip with the blushing rose !
The loved forget-me-not is young and bright,
The lily too unveils her cheek of white ;

25
The merry streamlet flings her pearls around,
A shout of gladness bursts at every bound I
No aching breast should heave a transient sigh,
Beneath the fond glance of our soft blue sky !
While every zephyr, brook, and whispering grove,
Tell the same tale of never-dying love.
With which kind Nature, from his cradle-side
Follows her pilgrim o'er life's varying tide ;
For she, blest Mother ! in his waking hours,
Round his glad footsteps smiles her sweetest flowers ;
And with the same kind look she ever keeps
Her faithful vigils o'er him while he sleeps I ' "
But without faith, since hope no longer smiles upon his
earthly career, it is plain that our wanderer must come to a
hurried end, unless he can rise to some higher philosophy than
such temporary flights indicate. With one bitter cry he yields
himself to his fate. The tale of his being forgotten is beauti
fully told.

" ' But man as he creeps onward to the grave.
Must also in his turn become a slave I
He will raise spirits whom he cannot quell.
And they shall bind him with a mighty spell !
Like the young oak, that woos the subtle vine,
In close embrace around his form to twine,
Till folded in her slow resistless clasp,
His heart is crushed beneath an iron grasp !
From the wide universe so man shall feel
A secret influence on his bosom steal ;
At first it gently lures his willing soul,
And he yields softly to its bland control ;
But soon the unknown power which he has nursed,
Weaves chains whose linked strength he cannot burst.
" 'Speak not of human grandeur, — it is clay !
Its thrones and temples, shadows of a day !
Talk not of human will, — we all are led
Throughout our journey by some viewless thread.
That busy Fate spins out from secret things.
And Time or Circumstance around us flings !
The frailest gossamer that buoys on high
The litde voyager of the upper sky.
When through the fields of air he seeks to float,
And launches from the mountain-top his boat,
4

26
Is cable-strong, compared with those that bind
Their unseen network o'er the struggling mind !
Of human love one word I may not speak,
That name would call the hecdc to my cheek ;
The secrets of this heart no one can share,
And night — stern night is quickly gathering there I '

" His lips were hushed, his dark eyelashes closed,
A heaven of silence on his face reposed, "
His hand released its grasp, — his fingers grew
Cold and unbending in their last adieu I
His brow so calm, so fair, each gazer felt,
That death had genffy with his vicUm dealt ;
While the full drops, which o'er his forehead rolled,
Would to that heart, if still it throbbed, have told,
Eemembering yet those pledges of the past,
At least one friend is faithful to the last I
" ' T was thus he lived, — thus died, — the very spot,
Where now he slumbers, is almost forgot.
There are a few kind ones, that knew him well,
Who still upon his memory love to dwell ;
Who guard each litffe gift with pious care,
Who think of him when bowed in secret prayer.
Smile blessings on his head, whose lips proclaim
What virtues clustered round that humble name,
And almost look approval, when they seek
In commendation of his faults to speak !
" When man forgets, the ivy vine will learn
To fold her arms around the lonely urn !
When for the slumberer tears no more are shed,
The conscious dew-drop glistens o'er his head,
And bending low the sylvan mourner weaves
The votive coronal of greenest leaves I
" These gentle ministrations only prove
How watchful for her child is Nature's love I
But when, unmindful of his brother clay,
Man turns with cold indifference away,
Oft grieving Nature withers at the sight,
As if she faded with untimely blight 1
And e'en I saw, when last I rambled by,
The willow boughs were growing old and dry ;
The flowers had vanished, and the well-heaped sod
Looked not so verdant as the common clod I

27
The mouldering plank, that spans the streamlet's bed,
Quivered and bent beneath my lightest tread ;
All seemed to join the waters in their flow.
And say, half mournfully, ' we too must go.'
Not long mementos frail as these can stay,
One after one they slowly fade away ;
And soon nought else his resting place can mark,
Save vague tradition, or conjecture dark.
When the old sexton, leaning on his spade,
Will tell you where he guesses he is laid I "
So ends the story of our student. It is an idealized portrait
of a character not uncommon in an age of unbelief How often
does the world see men of fair promise and noble ambition
quail like children before the blasts of seeming ill, and renounc
ing their high vocation as " speakers of the word or doers of the
work," give themselves up to the utterances of despair. The
fate of such men, and Byron and Burns are among their num
ber, is the most solemn warning God gives to his creatures ;
as the life of the pure and holy is the most effective stimulant.
A few passages in the address to his classmates with which
Mr. Hildreth concluded, are here introduced as illustrative of
the warm affections and high hopes with which his bosom
glowed. " We shall go forth ! is there no eye to bless.
No voice to cheer the spirit's loneliness,
And fill with form of light the empty void,
Which only teffs us that we have enjoyed ?
No one to take us kindly by the hand.
When first we leap upon the crowded strand,
And bid adieu the gentle bark that bore
Her young adventurers'to the busy shore .'
Oh yes ! Oh yes ! — the world is not so cold,
As some heart-sickened travellers have told.
Oh yes I there are kind words and smiles for aU,
And cheerful homes that we our own can call,
Round whose glad hearth-stones we will summon up,
When silent memory brims her festal cup,
In hours of quiet thought, each chosen guest,
To join the secret banquet of the breast !
Where we will tell each vanished joy and pain,
Where we will live our college days again,
Smffe at the mingled tide of hope and fear,
That swelled our hearts when first we gathered here.

28

Thence hurrying on with sadder features dwell.
On the last time we met — to bid farewell!
" We are not all together here to day,
The loved, lamented one is far away !
He comes no more ; — in yonder burial-place
An humble grave perchance your eye may trace ;
There slumbers not in all the hallowed ground
A kinder heart than rests beneath that mound !
Classmate ! if words of mine could bid them bloom,
How ffiick the flowers should cluster round thy tomb !
But doubly green, within each breast shall be
The amaranth remembrance twines for thee !
Though far from home, one boon was not denied,
Thy mother, boy, was kneeling at thy side,
And she who caught with smiles thy first-drawn breath,
Received it trembling from the lips of death !
For all her grief, oh 1 more than common bliss!
She felt thine earliest and thy latest kiss !
" We part like summer winds to meet no more.
When the rose month and rainbow day are o'er ;
Or like the troop of waters on their way.
Singing through glen and grove a joyous lay,
Who to the surging gulf together leap,
But hold no fellowship within the deep.
We part ; of those full thoughts this word inspires,
How poor the utterance to my large desires !
We part — to meet again — when sea and sky
Are like the dreams of slumberings gone by !
When o'er her plains no thing of life shall tread,
And all earth's pageantry of hills is fled, —
To meet again — upon those viewless shores
Whose heights, whose depths, no pioneer explores.
Whose brow shall then the wreath of darkness wear .''
Oh what will be our awful gathering there !
Shall we have chased each other to the grave,
Unheeding, reckless, as the headlong wave,
That marks not how his brother in the shock
Is dashed to foam upon the stubborn rock.
But plunging forward with impetuous roar
Against the giant crag, is seen no more .'
Oh ! speak not of an end like this ; but when
The last bell calls us, may we part like men !
Not as the spectre-haunted wretches creep,
To the low vaults of their unquiet sleep,

29
But wrenchuig from Death's icy grasp the key.
That opes the gate of immortality,
Low to the dust these time-forged fetters hurled,
Spring to the azure of a brighter world !
* * * *
" And thou, sweet village !• once the boyish theme,
Of many a noonday vision — midnight dream I
Where'er on earth, this resffess heart may be,
Still shall it beat, aye fondly beat, for thee !
If fate ordain that from the war of life,
I snatch one wreath caught in the glorious strife,
With what quick pleasure will I proudly bring,
And in thy lap the toil-won laurel fling !
But if for all my pains one leaf be minOj
That leaflet in thy garland would 1 twine !
What though I never hear the voice of fame,
And dust and silence shroud my humble name,
Yet can I always think upon the past.
And in good wishes pay my debt at last ;
For on thy hearts and homes my blessings rest,
Next to my cradle- place, I love thee best !

" Brothers ! forgive me ; I 've not tuned to-day,
With merry heart a light or gladsome lay,
For the dark thought that we so soon must part,
Has made me feel a very child at heart !
And oh ! those voices of our by-gone years,
Have rung too heavily upon my ears ;
Each breeze that by me swept her viewless wings,
Hath uttered dim-prophetic murmurings ;
And as I sung, they too have swelled along,
And mingled strangely, sadly, with my song.
" Come, come with me ! Gaze on those heavens awhile,
Where blue-eyed June reflects his evening smile.
How motionless yon lovely raven's wing,
Upon the cloud's white bosom slumbering !
In distance lost that solitary cry,
Melts with the calm profound insensibly !
" Those mountain-heights, throned in the solemn skies.
With looks of more than earthly grandeur rise ;
In those bright vales there is no voice to tell
A single word that sounds like our ' Farewell ' !
And neffher change, nor waste, nor death can be,
Where all seems heralding Eternity !
* Cambridge.

30
" Mine is a foolish thought ! Those realms of light
Are slowly darkening in the shade of night ;
A foolish thought — those mountains melt away.
And wffh them dies the echo of my lay ! "
How little could any one who heard the Oration and Poem
of that Class Day pronounced, have imagined that the lips of
the speakers were so soon to be closed in eternal silence I
Immediately after Commencement, the care of the elocution
department in the University was, much to the surprise of Mr.
Hildreth, offered to him. He afterwards learned, that his per
formance at Commencement had ensured an appointmant, aliout
which there had been some hesitation, on account of his ex
treme youth ; for he was not yet twenty. But, though he
became a teacher of the higher classes, at an age inferior to
that at which many enter the lowest, the friends of the institu
tion never found reason to regret the step for a moment ; and
its students delight to bear witness to his unaffected kindness,
and unwearied exertions for their improvement. The situation
was, in many respects, a desirable one to him ; as the weak
ness of his eyes, which delayed attention to professional study,
had here, from the slight use which it was necessary to make
of them, some chance of cure.
In the performance of the duties of this office, filling up the
intervals of teaching wffh composition, and hstening to reading,
he remained till a few weeks before his death, which took place,
Feb. 11th, 1839. It was caused by a fever, which so sudden
ly took a fatal turn, as not to allow the presence of his family
during his last moments. He rests at Mount Auburn, lono- the
scene of his summer rambles, in a beautiful spot, which over
looks the groves bf his Alma Mater.
Though none who knew him can help feeling sorrow at his
eariy departure, yet they will feel that they mourn for them
selves, and not for him. For in the death of one so pure and
elevated, what other room is there for sorrow ? , And here let
them remember that he lives even for them ; lives in every
kind word or holy thought he gave utterance to ; lives in ev
ery high purpose he fostered in those around him ; in every
recollection that inspires new ardor in the performance of duly ;
in those desires to be with him in brighter worlds, amid purer
intelligences, which force upon them the conviction that such
happiness can only be granted to those of a like pure spirit.

31
They are, indeed, deprived of his immediate presence, and no
longer hear from his lips the words of affection or of truth. But
the memory of the past is blessed to them. The saddest
thought of all is, that they cannot witness and profit by that fur
ther development of intellect and moral power, which they had
counted so much upon. But reason and revelation alike teach,
that it is going on where the departed is encumbered with fewer
hindrances, and that they will, if found worthy, enjoy the re
sults in eternity.
We would not speak of Mr. Hildreth as having realized the
idea of duty which revealed itself to him in the sanctuary of his
soul. To say so would be simply to disparage the beauty and
elevation of his conceptions. Undoubtedly, he had his con
flicts, his victories, and his defeats. But they were carried on upon
heights unknown to most. He speaks, indeed, in one of his
letterSj of feeling " often the jar and discord of low passions ; "
but he seemed almost unconscious of the existence of ths
temptations which are a snare to so many. And, if hs
ever was caffed upon to contend with them, his " victory was
so complete as almost to hide that there had ever been a strug
gle." Of surpassing loveliness and beauty of countenance, of
the most winning manners, and persuasive eloquence, he was
gifted with all those outward graces, that ensure to truth the wel
come which it so frequendy fails of finding. But these should
hardly be mentioned, when we might speak of an affectionate
disposition, of generous feelings, of true independence of char
acter, of an intuitive love of the good and beautiful, of an intu
itive hatred of the low and false.* More than all, we should
commemorate his zeal for truth, his faith in God, and his pur
pose of devoting himself to his service.

* The following extracts from a letter written by a classmate, soon
after the death of Mr. Hildreth, are given in confirmation of the above
judgment. " I have seldom had happier moments than those spent in his com
pany ; have never enjoyed myself better, than when affording him
pleasure. * * * A great motive with me at first for forsaking many
follies, for trying to become wiser and better, was the desire of being
worthy of associating and conversing with him. * * * I have seldom
disagreed with him about a matter of duty, without seeing in the end
that he was right, and I wrong. Where I have not yet seen this, time
may show that there also his sense of right was keener than mine.
But the exceptions are few, and are becoming every day fewer."

32
It is possible, indeed, that Mr. Hildreth's purpose of studying
divinity might have been frustrated by the physical weakness
before affuded to ; which must, at any rate, have prevented the
usual attention to many branches of theological study. He hoped
that the affection was only temporary. Had it proved lasting,
it is not unlikely that he would have accepted the Professor
ship at Cambridge, which we have learned, since his death, would
probably have been offered to him. But, in either or any place,
his Maker would have commanded the highest service of his
powers. Alluding to his weak eyesight, he says, in one of his
letters ;
" When Nature is so harmonious, and vocal only with love
and praise, why should my soul feel often the jar and discord of
low passions .-' Each day reveals to me new knowledge of my
self; each day have I to accord some new string, that will not
vibrate in unison with the great harmonies of the world. When
I see others around me, laboring and striving in depths of know
ledge which are shut up against me, it causes an involuntary
sadness for the moment. But this I believe, that, if here I am
not able to gratify my love for study, in another sphere of being
I shall not fail through the weakness of a physical constitution.
Here, at least, can I worship the Ideal, here can I strive after
and imitate it."
The foffowing paragraphs, extracted from his letters, will
show some of the feelings with which he regarded life and
death. " Jan. 10th, 1838. — It was a beautiful evening when I ar
rived in Boston. The streets were crowded with people, some
returning home from the day's toil and business, others wander
ing for pleasure with loud voices along the sidewalks, and others
with sad hearts returning to their miserable dwellings. There is
something, 1 know not what, which almost always affects me to
tears, in such a sight as I then wffnessed. I thought, as I looked
up at the tranquil stars, and the still moon, which were gazing
from their far depths at the restless, busy multitudes beneath
them, how soon these loud tongues and merry bosoms, these
aching hearts and weary hands would be silent, and at rest.
Another generation, and yet another would succeed, as happy,
as careless, as wretched as that which had gone before. Man
dies, moulders, is forgotten. A stranger treads where he has
trod, — a stranger sits by his fireside, and repeats not his name.
But ah ! from those bright worlds, from the pure sky above me

33
and more audibly stffl from the deep recesses of my own soul,
a voice cried, — It is not so; man lives! You may miss him
trom this visible scene of things, you may lay his body in the
dust, but he lives ; lives where there are no heads made hoary
with white hairs, where no arms are spent and weary with thank
less, bitter toil. More than this, far more, he lives with Christ
and God a spiritual life."
" Feb. 17th. — If we acknowledge a revelation of God's good
ness and power in the external worid, in the material forms
around us, if we say that these are good, (and cold, lifeless, and
ungrateful must he be who denies this,) stiff more do I believe
that there is a revelation of the same love and power in the spir
itual nature of God's noblest works, the heart and soul of man.
If in the world of sense he has not left himself without a wff-
ness, I know that here also he speaks, and loudly."
" March 2d. — The doctrine is a cold, heartless, and false one,
that all the enjoyments of life, all happiness and bright hours, are
limited to chffdhood and youth. There is for every age a store
of delights reserved, if we are not unjust and untrue to ourselves.
As though this beautiful worid, these blue skies, these clouds
and winds, these woods and rivers, were only intended to give
pleasure to the few first years of our dwelling among and be
neath them ! As though the stars did not ever call us to God,
and fill the soul with love and adoration ! As though sunrise
and twilight did not speak to us in their silent grandeur, and bid
us be glad, and feast our hearts wffh beauty, sublimity, and high
hopes ! As though we could not, when we please, go back in
memory to by-past hours, and live them all over again I God
is good ; if we are unhappy, He does not make us so ; of that be
sure. Besides the ever-varying scenes of beauty that the exter
nal world displays to us, have we not moral perfection and beau
ty to contemplate and strive after .? Has Jesus lived and died in
vain ? Have all good men given us ffieir examples for no use
or benefit ? Have we not powers to develope and cultivate ? af
fections to cherish and enlarge .'' Let us not, then, talk of un-
happiness, when there is so much glorious work to be done ; so
many heavens around and within us, if we will but look about
and examine ourselves."
" March 10. — I was much surprised to hear of Mr. G — 's
death. The ways of Providence are truly incomprehensible. Yet
do we not believe that all is right ? Do we not believe that there
is a just and holy and merciful God, to whose word we should
bow with all humility and reverence ? Would that my faith were
increased and strengthened."

34
Speaking of the dangerous illness qf a friend, he says,
" To us it seems strange that earthly hopes should be so
blasted, — fond visions of the future so quickly dissipated,—
but all is effected by a mysterious and unseen hand. The ills
and misfortunes of life, like the different colors which the artist
weaves into his web, are finally brought out for the best. The
whole appears finished and perfect at the completion, although
the design was not at first perceived. We may in the present
place apply those lines of Coleridge's,
' Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies ?
Yes ! but not his, 't is Death himself there dies.' "
Alluding to the return of spring, he remarks,
" It really does me good to feel once more the glad sun
beams ; — to hear a thousand living voices calling around me, a
thousand melodious notes blending in rapturous harmony ; — ^to
see nature released from the chains of winter, teeming with in
numerable happy beings, her countenance decked with smiles,
her lap filled with flowers. Such a scene as this imparts new
vigor to my frame, and awakens in my mind countless holy
recollections, until I become lost in a world of thought. I thank
my God for all this happiness, this pure, unfading enjoyment.
Unfading I call it, for it is spiritual, and becomes a portion of
my soul's bliss; — far, oh, far different from any animal pleas
ure, the memory of which so soon perishes. I think that my
views of things are changing, that 1 am growing better ; at least
I strive after this change. I try to resist temptation, and often
pray my Heavenly Father for help and support; and I feel that
my prayers are answered. The outward world presents to me
a different aspect. It has acquired an indefinable something,
which renders what is beautiful more lovely, and adds a deeper
shade to what is unworthy of regard."
Referring to the state of his eyes, he writes,
" It is a most uncomfortable afflicffon. But when I look
around me, and see thousands, who seem to be more deserving
of blessings, and are yet called to suffer far, far more than
myself, really my o-wn misfortune does not appear worth a single
regret, least of all, a subject for murmuring, or the indulgence
of a fretful spirit. Sometimes the hours hang rather heavily
upon my heart ; but I have good kind friends about me ; and I
can employ my time in their society, or in my own meditations,
in reviewing my past life, in self-examination, in laying plans

35
the future. I can now see where I have erred in my educa-
on, and can feel the full force of those errors ; may they be
properly employed for my future advantage."
ihe following sonnets are taken frpm his last letter, — one
written upon the first snow-storm, — the other upon the open
ing year. U er field and road, on sloping roof and tree,
1 he silent frost like a rich blessing lies,
Which the calm night sent down so noiselessly,
lo greet the morning with a mild surprise.
The gray-white clouds that waff o'er yonder hffls,
Have caught with eager smile the sun's first ray ;
And earth and air a solemn gladness fills,
As from the east comes forth the Sabbath Day !
The blue hearth-smoke goes upward straight and slow,
Till in the peaceful sky its being ends ; —
More tranquil yet, beneath ffs weight of snow,
With meek and trustful look the wfflow bends.
Such deep repose oh ! could my bosom gain !
And might as calm a hope within my spirit reign ! "

" It dawns at last. The steeple ball is tipt
With a bright yellow tuft of golden beams ;
On dull brown hills and dark trees barren stript,
In joyousness the impatient sunlight streams.
Winter, who sternly rules our Northern clime,
Loosens the harshness of his rugged face ;
And smiles to see this new-born child of time
His Father's flaming steeds yoke for the race !
This placid morn, mild air, and lovely sky.
Seem of the dead cold earth to make no part —
As God and Heaven and Failh of rapture high
Stand isolated from the worldly heart.
May the bright angels who have brought thee here.
Long watch within my soul, when thou art gone, New Year."
January, 1839.
The thought of his own mortality was often present to Mr.
Hildreth's mind. How vividly so must it have been to have
prompted the following sentences. At the end of his " Life," in
the " Class Book," he had written, " Died  , 18—,
 J " leaving blanks for the insertion of the time and place

36
of his death. With what an emphasis mast this warning strike
upon the ear, borne as it were from beyond the grave !
" Stop, thou ! whoever thou art, that recordest the day of my
death. Stop ! and ere thou writest the fatal word, breathe one
prayer of peace to my parted spirit I Have I wasted my
life in a vain pursuit after phantom pleasures } Have I left no
thing for the good of my fellow-men .'
" Not so do thou ! The bubble pleasure breaks in thy grasp, and
study is a weariness to the flesh. There is but one way for thee,
the narrow path ; but one burden, the yoke that is easy and light.
If I have been mistaken in my choice, and I tremble while I write
it, thou art not left without warning. If thou hast chosen aright,
this warning will cheer thee onward ; — if wrong, oh ! let it call
thee back with a thunder-peal. But if all is well with me, I
pray, classmate, it may be so with thee."
The present writer must repeat, in conclusion, that he did
not undertake to give any complete account of the lives of his -
friends ; he has tried to present that aspect of their characters,
which was most familiar to him. He has not attempted to
describe the filial piety which graced the fireside of home, or to
paint the visions of future enjoyment in their society, which the
Providence of God has so mysteriously dispelled. Still less
could he look into the sanctuary of their souls, and listen to
those communings with their Maker, which, to be without alloy,
must be unknown to all created beings. What was most affec
tionate and holy in their hearts is left to the conception of those
like them in spirit. The purity of their outward lives must
have flowed from a pure source within. " They both died young ;
but who can say that either died untimely ? Rather be it
thought, that they had done their work ; they had fitted them
selves for immortality ; and as for the work of the world, what
God purposes, God will do, using indifferenffy the agencies of
good and evil, as of day and night, sunshine and storm." *
* Hartley Coleridge.